


Straight From The 80s.

by ZeeBirdy



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: 80's Music, Abuse, Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cheating, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Gambling, Gang Violence, Gen, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Other, Physical Abuse, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Uh side note: Not all relationships are tagged, Violence, bc they're just fleeting mentions and not relevant, but also Nisha/Jack aren't end game or super plot heavy they just fuck sometimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:35:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22808716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeeBirdy/pseuds/ZeeBirdy
Summary: Rhys has a less than desirable life. With an abusive father, abusive boyfriend, and a bowling alley he wishes he could make his own, Rhys has stopped hoping for anything better than what he's got. Until he meets Jack...Handsome Jack is cocky, arrogant mob boss who owns an obnoxious casino named The Handsome Jackpot, and is a widowed father on the side. His life is exciting and violent, and no one gets in his way unless they have a death wish.1984 may just be the real beginning to Rhys' life.
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Nisha (Borderlands), Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands), Rhys/Hugo Vasquez
Comments: 32
Kudos: 111





	1. What's Love Got To Do With It?

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This fic deals with dark themes and uncomfortable topics that may be triggering to some people. The 80s had crazy fashion and fun colours, but it was also kind of shitty and rough, so add Borderlands + a mob AU on top of that and you've got a shit show. 
> 
> (More tags will be added down the line where necessary but be aware this fic will deal with the following in varying degrees: Homophobia, transphobia, racism, graphic depictions of violence, torture, murder, physical and emotional abuse, dubious and non consensual sex, sexual references, discussion of suicide, discussion of mental health struggles, discrimination, and possibly more. These are not all major themes present throughout the entire fic, and I will specifically warn before said chapter if a triggering theme occurs, but if any of the following are major triggers for you, do tread carefully reading on. There are also multiple ships referenced throughout this pic, both present and past. I'll add them as they appear, but idk if you really hate multi shipping stuff this probably isn't for you! The primary focus is Rhack, but all the same.)
> 
> Additional note: Actual smut/sex scenes won't be present, though there may be sexual references. I will be adding the sex scenes on my NSFW account @sinbirdy and linking/referencing when they occur.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys Strongfork is an ordinary guy somewhat down on his luck. He's stuck living with his parents, he's stuck working at his family's business, and he's stuck in a bad relationship. He needs Lady Luck to shine down on him soon...

**_CLICK..._ **

It’s instantaneous, the rolling of Rhys’ shoulders, as the smooth, sultry tones come through the large speakers. The corner of his mouth lifts, and he nods his head along, taking his hand away from the players controls. A few other customers smile knowingly, clicking along or rolling their hips the way they would at a Friday night club.

“ _You must understand though the touch of your hand; Makes my pulse react_ ,”

If Rhys were a dog, he imagines his ears would have perked up at the sound of Vaughn singing, putting all his heart and soul into it as he cleans the table top of the ice cream station. He looks up and meets Rhys’ eyes, and the energy spikes like there’s a bolt of electricity running through their gaze. Rhys feels it too, his whole face beaming as he starts to sing along with his best friend, from their distances. 

“ _That it's only the thrill of boy meeting girl; Opposites attract. It's physical..._ ”

They’re both reaching out across the counters they’re stood behind, passionately reenacting one of the many choreographed dances they’ve come up with. Eyes never falling. Smiles practically hurting. Sure, it’s all in good humour, but that doesn’t stop the familiar heat rising. The performance euphoria that always comes with dancing; whether it’s just them sliding across the freshly waxed floor in their socks, or it’s on the vibrant, pulsating dancefloor of a local club.

“ _Only logical…_ ”

They both lean back over their counters, tossing their heads backward but still in view of the other. Rhys lifts his leg up in the air dramatically, way above his waist, flaunting his long, slender limbs. Vaughn tries to stifle his laughter. 

“ _You must try to ignore that it means more than that, ooo--_ ”

Suddenly Sasha jumps out from seemingly nowhere and slams her hands down on the reception desk behind Rhys, making him yelp.

“ _What's love got to do, got to do with it!_ ” She bellows out, no attempt at keeping in tune, opting for volume over quality. She immediately laughs when Rhys glares at her, and he in no way appreciates _that_. He pretends as if he can't hear Vaughn tittering away out of view.

“You’re fired.” He retorts, and to no surprise she simply laughs and waves him off. 

“Then who will help you with your taxes?” She calls out as she twirls around Rhys and walks down the stairs to the basement office, deliberately swinging her hips. She’s not wrong, much to Rhys’ annoyance. He looks over to Vaughn and raises a brow when he catches the other man’s amused expression.

Vaughn just shrugs and continues laughing under his breath as he gets back to cleaning the station. All Rhys can do is roll his eyes.

It's loud, like it is most days at the bowling alley. Rhys holds his position behind the counter, a pleasant, relaxed smile stitched onto his face, watching over the customers at their lanes. He busies himself with odd jobs, and enjoys the upbeat, provocative stylings of Tina Turner through the speakers. Bowling balls clatter loudly against the glossy wooden pins, and people cheer triumphantly. Rhys has been working at the bowling alley for so many years now, the loud is mostly just white noise. 

But even when he does tune in, the loud here is welcomed. It's _controlled_ , and light, and not destructive, unlike his morning. Crashing pins and families laughing are like calming tides on a beach front, compared to his father's yelling and smashing plates.

It's a pleasant day. The good Friday vibes roll through the early customers and friends alike, and it's a breath of fresh air for Rhys. _The Lucky Striker_ has become somewhat of a home away from home for him. As he checks his to-do list for the work day, he enjoys the juxtaposition that is the bowling alley compared to his home. The walls here are thriving with life, beaming with sharp colours and stories of triumph, unlike the curling, decaying old wallpaper of his home, noticeably scarce of any family photos. People actually _smile_ when they’re at _The Lucky Striker_ , unlike the lack luster, dead expressions sewn into both Rhys and his mother’s faces at home. Rhys doesn't begrudge hard labour when he's allowed to just get stuck into things, but standing before his father in his busted, dusty recliner, he despises the very idea of work...

It's remarkable, that for a man caught coughing up blood less than a fortnight ago, Rhys' father still musters up the energy to lecture him about his work ethic, only taking breaks to puff on his cigar. Truly, a sight to behold, Mr Strongfork. He'd been near knocking on death's door, not so long ago, but seemingly wriggled his way out of that meeting; with what Rhys assumed was a deal with the devil.

He tries not to think about this morning's lecture, but the venomous words manage to slither in regardless.

His father's hatred is _boring_. It seems like his favourite thing in the world is to belittle Rhys. Sometimes there's nothing to complain about, but Mr Strongfork will work toilsome to _find_ a fault. Rhys works near to 7 days a week, dusk till dawn, jumping between three separate businesses, and still gets called "a lazy moocher" by his father. He could be bleeding out on the carpet, sweat and tears streaming down his face as he begs for help, and Mr Strongfork will find a way to mock him for needing assistance.

Maybe that's just what life had planned for him, though. If fate is real, if everyone needs a role and all roles keep balance, obviously Rhys is the town punching bag - in that respect his father is simply training him for the cruelty that will surround his life.

‘ _The Lucky Striker_ ’ has been alive and thriving since Rhys was a baby. Back when his father hired pinboys, until the 60s when he could afford the installation of production model pinspotters, Rhys’ childhood revolved around the place. He spent his precious weekends sat on the reception counter shining shoes while his father served customers. Rich housewives would coo over him endlessly and buy him milkshakes, and his father would laugh, calling them pathetic. Rhys distinctly notes how his own mother never said much about his behaviour. She never did and she never will. The 70s saw his father take a backseat to the manual labour aspects of the business. Rhys started working full time when he was 16.

Now he’s 26. His father is bed bound with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, his mother spends her days staring longingly out the window, and Rhys shines bowling balls and shoes, with such an intense vigour, the polished squeak blocks out his hateful resentment toward them both. _What a life_.

In the midst of his singing, he hears a gaggle of girlish laughter burst through the front entrance, with soft chat holding up the back. He looks over his shoulder to see the junior bowling team, _The Sparkies,_ skipping ahead to their usual lounge and lane sets. Some of the teen's mothers approach Rhys out of courtesy. Not all the girls have arrived yet, but then again neither has Hugo, the coach. It'd be uncharacteristic if he's anything but late.

When Rhys was a little kid, he used to dream about one day joining a bowling team. Watching the professionals in their hay day laugh with one another, their slick, shimmering uniforms, their personalised balls inscribed with their names, and the joy that came with having an audience...Rhys yearned for that. He craved the approval they seemed to gain from customers and friends alike, and he wanted nothing more than to find a sense of certainty like they had in each other. They were a _team_. 

Rhys envied that. He so badly wanted the same blissful security, it seemed so dreamy and infinite, like only a star could obtain. 

One of the walls around the bend of the lanes is a collection of memorabilia from star players and those alike. This includes two shirts from champion players who died when Rhys was a kid. He remembers when his father first hung them up in their frame. He used to stare longingly at them, reading every loving signature scribbled over the blue material, words of gratitude and mourning from team members who’d created a family. He would focus on the faint reflection through the glass, and sometimes he’d smile. His young, hopeful face, picturing his future, praying it came soon and saved him...

Life has a funny way of painting Rhys every shade of blue, much like those damn bowling shirts.

Hugo arrives 10 minutes into when Rhys is fixing one of the lane computer keyboards. His entrance is as theatrical as usual. He bursts through the glass doors and huffs loudly, pushing his shades up into his quaffed hair, before obnoxiously slurping the frothy caffeinated beverage he bought across the road. Rhys is able to court the painstaking urge to roll his eyes, but it's not an easy task when Hugo scans the entire room, and upon spotting Rhys actually bellows out triumphantly like he's won a grand prize.

Hugo marches over without even a passing glance to his team. Chest puffed out and face practically glistening with smugness, he’s so _typical_. He's like a model out of a Seers catalogue, with his chiseled features and superficial valour. A picture perfect husband for any doting housewife, ironically. He’s always looked modelesque, even when they were young dumb high school kids. Rhys can still see that preppy, boisterous jock, that somehow always had perfect hair after soccer practice. The guy that everyone adored, that made Rhys wonder if he was gay, and even better the guy that first kissed him in the locker room, even though his nose was bleeding...Hugo has been a dreamboat his whole life, no matter his age, ego or arrogance. 

When he’s in front of Rhys, he’s like a metal wall towering over him. He used to know the loose bricks, he used to be able to climb him, but at this point, Rhys has given up trying to get through what’s seemingly become impenetrable.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favourite worker bee.” He drags every syllable, agonisingly slow, and signs the sentence off with a slimy grin. Rhys has grown to resent his low, drawled voice. Shamefully, it used to be his favourite thing about him. Hugo leans against the Ball Return and crosses his legs. Rhys glances behind him to see the glares from impatient mothers directed to _both_ of them. “That’s a little revealing for work attire, don’t you think?”

Rhys glances down at himself and without lifting his head, gives Hugo a look of disbelief. Low hanging plaited jeans and a dirty grey crop top, with a plaid shirt tied around his waist. That's it. Nothing special, as far as Rhys is aware.

Before he can speak though, Hugo's inched himself closer. His dark, clouded eyes pull Rhys into the fog, choke him hard and leave him breathless with fear. His lips curl into something sinister. Even with a thick, groomed beard, Hugo's square jaw _pops_ and threatens to cut him open.

"I can only hope it's a show for _me_ ,right?"

Rinse, repeat, as always with Hugo. Rhys just sighs and nods. 

“Who else would it be for?” He replies in a less than enthused tone. He bends over to get underneath the panel

He knows the sigh is going to result in trouble later, but hiding every aspect of his exhaustion would result in him collapsing. 

Hugo snorts under his breath, resentfully. “Right answer. But you’ll be more covered up for tonight, right?” His eyes drop to Rhys’ bum, and a snake’s grin slithers across his face. Rhys looks over his shoulder and pretends he didn’t notice Hugo’s lowered gaze.

“Tonight? Uhh...did we make plans?” It’s not unheard of for Hugo to decide off handedly that they’re going to be together, and Rhys has given up pretending he knows about their surprise dates. This is one of them.

“I got us in on the VIP list at the Handsome Jackpot downtown. There’s a big cash prize tonight on the golden roulette table, and I thought it would be good to spend those winnings on a getaway trip…" Hugo is careful leaning in, wary of the eyes around them, the intention his closeness might come across as. "Maybe we recreate prom night, but actually buy a spa session instead of sneaking into a hot tub."

Nostalgia, of course. It's Rhys' Kryptonite. Hugo knows it too, knows it'll make him susceptible to his charm, weak for his starry eyed promises. Rhys can see it now, shaping around the imposter before him - the soft touches, the excited love thriving off every breath, and the way Hugo used to look at him like an angel, not a prize. The happy, blissful memories are haunting, but he's addicted.

Rhys' fond smile is enough of a response according to Hugo. He chuckles and quickly jumps back to straighten up, resuming a casual, totally-not-flirting-with-my-boyfriend pose. He points at Rhys with his drink and winks. It's sleazy. Rhys instantly grunts.

"I'll pick you up here at 8. Dress sexy." He turns around then stops, looking over his shoulder. He wrinkles his nose as he looks at Rhys arm. "Wear _sleeves_."

Rhys feels like someone's shot him in the heart. Hugo snickers under his breath and turns sharply on his heels to join his team. Rhys does his best to keep his composure despite the last second gunshot wound to his confidence. 

His exit prompts Vaughn to rush from his station to Rhys’ side. 

“You alright, bro?”

Rhys snorts, going back to fiddling with the wires of the lane’s board control. “Yeah sure, just Vasquez being _Vasquez_ as usual.”

“Why are you still dating him? Isn’t he, like, the biggest tool in the world?” Vaughn looks over his shoulder briefly to see Hugo glaring at his students as they type their names into the scoreboard. Rhys can’t help but find Vaughn’s anxiety just a little humorous.

“That’s too generous, man. Vasquez is the biggest tool in the _galaxy_.” Rhys picks up the tool box on the floor and flips the panel over on the board, securing the latches. “He’s just-- he’s harmless, mostly. He’s like an unneutered dog.”

As Rhys walks away to put his tool box out back, Vaughn scurries after him, huffing irritably. “Vasquez, harmless? Sorry, we _are_ talking about the same guy that left bruises on your neck?”

“That was during sex, Vaughn.”

“And your eye?”

Rhys goes quiet. That definitely wasn’t from rough play.

“Eh, I’ve dealt with worse.” 

And Rhys knows for fact Vaughn knows that to be true. _God_ , Vaughn knows it better than anyone; better than Rhys himself, sometimes. He’s been Rhys’ best friend since first grade, when Rhys pushed the big kid that broke Vaughn’s glasses. Sure, Rhys ended up with a fat bottom lip and a bruised coxis where he fell, but he gained a friend. It’s been that way ever since, Rhys defending Vaughn at the drop of a hat without thinking of a good defense, and ending up battered and bruised. No, Rhys isn’t built like a greek God, and he’s not the quickest on his feet with comebacks, but he’s stupidly brave, and his idiocy is definitely underrated.

Vaughn baggers Rhys some more about his relationship with Vasquez, but it’s the same worries as any other speech. “ _He shouldn’t have punched you_ ”, “ _what if he does it again_ ”, “ _he uses you for sex_ ”, “ _it’s not love_ ”, and Rhys just nods along, same as he does for his father’s lectures. He’s given up explaining himself for the hundredth time.

He’s fed up full stop, quite frankly, that he’s more or less become a caricature of what everyone sees and needs. 

“Vaughn, I need you to worry about serving customers rather than my love life.” He points toward the unmanned ice cream station, waving when the mother and child are waiting, smiling at him. Vaughn mumbles something under his breath as he scurries back, and Rhys knows he’ll bring it all back up again later. He always does.

As Vaughn resumes his place behind the counter, _Angel_ finally arrives. Rhys turns when Gaige calls out her name, and catches her apprehensive smile, and instinctively knits his brows. Following close behind is a tall woman, with a wool stone embellished cowgirl hat and crop denim Jacket and jeans, which if she wasn’t so striking would clash horrifically. She doesn’t look at anyone _but_ Angel, like a hawk to its prey. Rhys doesn’t know her name, but he has seen her a few times drop Angel off.

Though Hugo is clearly irritated by Angel being late, he doesn’t dare say anything about it. No one knows exactly what Angel’s family does, but they know they’re powerful. Angel’s parents have never dropped her off or come to see her bowl. It’s always one of three people: the tall cowgirl, a humongous, beast of a man, and a skinny, pale guy who seemingly was the most approachable of the trio, and was often singing showtunes under his breath. Angel is an enigma, who clearly comes from a prestigious family, and with such an ominous sense of worth comes being invincible. Where Hugo would happily humiliate a different student for being late, Angel doesn’t need to even say a word and he’s let her off the hook. 

She’s also his star player, so he avoids pissing her off.

She takes her place beside Gaige and quietly apologises to Hugo. She can’t see the woman that’s accompanied her glaring at Hugo a few feet behind her, almost daring him to belittle Angel so _she_ can step in. Rhys wishes Hugo had the nerve, but all he can sum up is a nod before swiftly moving on, setting their session up.

The cowgirl seems happy with herself. She takes a seat at the end of the ice cream bar and watches Angel intensely. The other mother's gossip about her indefinitely, and she knows it. Something about the one glance she shoots Rhys lets him know she knows everything around her.

Hell, it wouldn't surprise Rhys if she knew more about this place than _he_ did; it felt like everyone did. He laughs under his breath and carries on working, knowing he'll get an earful later about how much Hugo hates that cowgirl.

“Hay boss man, phone call!” Sasha bellows out as loud as she can to be heard over the bowling balls, and Rhys raises his brow when he hears her. She’s peering up the stairs within the basement office, holding the receiver out at arms length, and looks unphased. Nonchalant, he thinks. Sasha’s more than capable of handling business enquiries herself, and usually only needs Rhys for private information she hasn’t got access to.

He shuffles down the stairs and swings round the banister to grab the phone. Sasha gets back to a stack of paperwork the second the phone is out of her hand. 

“Rhys Strongfork here--”

“Obviously. You’re who I asked for.” The gravelly, sick drilling of his father’s voice hits Rhys like a hammer to his skull. Sasha’s not looking at him directly, so he’s safe to have a visual reaction and roll his eyes.

“Is everything okay?” He tries to convey something akin to busy but breezy, so his father won’t stick around for long. He hears a grim, watery snort through the line of his father hacking up flem and spitting it out. Rhys wrinkles his nose in disgust. 

“Did you take out a grand from the business last month?”

The mail must have arrived, and with it the expense reports. Rhys can almost hear the paper crinkle in his fingers as he flicks through the pieces. He can picture him now, too, round reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose, his greasy long hair pushed behind his ears and out of his face for a change. He’ll be leaning forward in his recliner, knees bowed out, and the piss colour lamp burning misery into his aging skin and grimmy clothes. Rhys would love to grab the image of his father, displaying a prime example of his lackluster cynicism, and rip it apart. 

He clicks his tongue off the roof of his mouth. “Yes, I had to get the machinery working for lane 7, remember-”

“You know to never use my money without my explicit permission. Now I need to redo my expense reports!”

He hasn’t done any expense reports of any kind since 1978. He hasn’t done paperwork full stop since either. 

“Dad, I did tell you-”

“Don’t talk back to me. Now listen, I don’t need my livelihood going down the toilet because you’ve decided to slack off with your friends. You can’t just use my money for frivolous things and not consult it with me!”

Rhys pinches the bridge of his nose and scrunches his eyes shut. “Dad, I _did_ talk to you about this tho-”

“Take some God damn responsibility, Rhys! You know how lucky you are?” His father’s tone sharpens, but unlike when Rhys was a kid, he keeps his composure and settles in for the lecture. It’s like he has it scheduled into his diary to berate Rhys. “When I was a kid, I had nothing! My father couldn’t provide for me the way I can for you, and I had to do everything for myself. The least you could do is show me some respect and gratitude.”

If Sasha wasn’t in the room, Rhys might finally snap. Not because of any particular feeling like his chest caving in, or his head pounding, or his blood boiling so hot he’s ready to explode like a volcano - just because he’s waiting for the day it all finally consumes him like a poison. Maybe if he didn’t have to keep being himself he could do it, break the strings holding him up like a puppet, but there’s too many variables halting that bravery. He glances over at Sasha every so often. She’s oblivious to the hellscape that is Rhys’ relationship with his father; she’s almost oblivious to having hardships and inconveniences in life at all, beside her own inability to decide if committing to her boyfriend is a good idea or not. 

There’s no point fighting his father. He runs a hand through his hair and relaxes fully against the wall. “I’m sorry, dad. I thought I was making a good idea and saving you the hassle, but you’re right. It won’t happen again.”

It’s quiet, then his father grunts. 

“Get yourself dinner tonight, your mother’s not cooking.”

The next thing Rhys hears is the dial tone, and as he hangs up the receiver he lets out the heavy breath that was taking up his lungs. Sasha turns in the swivel chair. She looks inappropriately smug.

“Is he still pretending he does any work?”

“That’s all he ever does.” Rhys rubs his eyes vigorously and yawns loudly.

“You did lie to him though…” She sounds like she’s concerned, but Rhys knows Sasha better than she likes to acknowledge. He knows she thrives off his misery, it makes her feel better about herself. She gets to watch Rhys and feel superior, regardless if he’s the boss, because no matter who signs her paycheck, she knows he has no power underneath it all. It’s a sick thrill, sucking the life out of someone just by observing them, but honestly Rhys doesn't blame her. They have to get their kicks from somewhere. 

And she's right. Rhys _did_ lie. Lane 7 didn't need more than a tinker, which he’s more than capable of doing, but his father doesn't understand anything mechanical, and the only reason Sasha knows is because she _actually_ handles the expenses. Rhys fixed the machine without spending a penny, but a missing $1000 doesn’t fly by Sasha’s radar. 

He did tell his father the machine needed fixing, though, so on principle he’s in his right to be irritated. Even if the money did go toward a handy man, he’d be grilled incessantly. Mr Strongfork would rather leave it faulty and disappoint paying customers, than spend the money warming his pockets. Rhys would happily spend actual money to better the place up, but the ideas he has are _never_ listened to.

_They always sound too expensive…_

Rhys hums under his breath and rolls against the banister to skip back up the stairs. Sasha calls after him unenthusiastically, but she’s not bothered outside of frivolous gossip. Rhys resumes his place at the reception desk and starts serving a young family. Every so often he looks over their shoulder to Hugo and the young girls, watching them, observing how comfortably cocky Hugo is. He thinks about how desperate Hugo looked last month, on his knees in the rain, begging him for money so he could pay off gambling losses. Rhys knew Hugo wouldn’t pay him back, so he cut the hope and lied to his father. The money will come out of Rhys’ paycheck anyway, so he’s not affecting anyone else, but he just wishes he could have his own life finally, with money that belongs to him, no conditions or emotions attached.

He's tired of feeling guilty.


	2. Time After Time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys visits the Handsome Jackpot and accidentally meets the one and only, Handsome Jack. What better after being belittled by your brutish "boyfriend" than to get drunk and flirt with a rich stranger?

It's not often Rhys ventures into the hustle and bustle of central Vegas, but every time he has, he's gone with Hugo. Living in Paradise Nevada was rather hectic in and of itself, he didn't feel the need to explore the place where pride goes to die. His father used to say Las Vegas was a dumb man's excuse to feel rich, but tourists are a smart man's cash cow - hence why they live and operate on the outskirts of the busy Paradise strip. The same strip connecting to the one and only wonderland, that which Hugo is speeding down currently.

Lights speed by like the flutter of a hummingbird's wings, blinding Rhys with their invitations to thrills. It's a neon rainbow against Hugo's window. Whenever Hugo stops at a red light, Rhys would take in the scenery of scantily clad women stalking the streets in their skimpy outfits and high boots. He wondered how many of them are looking for work, if their thin frames were the result of too many drugs, or how long they could smile before their sharp cheekbones jutting out would tear their skin. The sidewalks were smooth grey stones, joined with such precision that the joins were almost invisible. The plethora of clubs, casinos and attractions shine so bright it was easy for Rhys to forget there was even a night sky above them.

It’s not a long drive, but the quiet between he and Hugo makes things seem slow. Rhys has a million and one thoughts filling every inch of space in his head, but he knows Hugo won’t care about any of them. It’s not tense, it’s just normal. All there is is the quiet hum of ‘ _The Who_ ’ playing on his cassette.

When Hugo parks up on the curb, Rhys jumps out of Hugo's beloved 1968 Jaguar Convertible (not waiting for any inevitable snarky comments), and flattens down his clothes. He stares up at the flashy casino lights. The building is obnoxiously humongous, painted red and white, somehow standing out like a sore thumb despite its familiar tacky company all around. Above the entrance hangs giant flashing letters, _The Handsome Jackpot_ , flashing to the beat of an epileptics nightmare. Either side of the dark tinted glass doors are two broad bouncers dressed in a silk yellow shirt and black waistcoat. Water features, lights pounding through the windows, a height that gives Rhys the worst case of vertigo he’s ever experienced, and of course a chorus of drunken ramblings and screams coming from inside. The entire street is thriving similarly, but it seems this is the most lively casino of the night.

Suddenly he’s nervous. He grips the sleeves of his jumper tight in his fists, taking deep, calming breaths.

He settled with an acid wash yellow mesh jumper, with a noodle strap tank top beneath, and tight high-rise leather pants he stole from his mother. Looking at his arm in dim lights, it was hard to tell it was prosthetic, but the see through material of his jumper had aggravated Hugo all the same. He'd groaned when Rhys got in the car, but Rhys actively ignored him.

"You know disabled spots don't matter for valet parking, right?" Hugo remarks to Rhys as he walks around the car and drops his keys into the hands of a teen, suited and booted outside the casino. He makes sure to snarl at the sweaty kid, glaring as he gets in to drive the vehicle into the car park tucked around the corner. Rhys rolls his eyes out of Hugo's view.

"I can't just stop having a prosthetic arm because it makes you uncomfortable." Rhys rolls his shoulder, trying not to let insecurities get the better of him.

They don't need to wait in the queue behind the golden velvet ropes, nor do they have to bribe the bouncer at the front door. Hugo gives them his name, and though the broad security guard looks Rhys over suspiciously, Hugo’s name and status is enough to buy his trust. They enter through to a red hall with stairs dead ahead. To the left is a door where booming music emits and the sound of a slurred voice over a mic echoes through the base. Hugo and Rhys walk past as a man in flared leather orange trousers walks out arm in arm with two women giggling like hyenas.

The stairs feel like they'll never end. Rhys takes long strides going two steps at a time. The walls are dark blood red, and on the second floor they sparkle like a cascade of stars. Hugo has a sleazy grin plastered across his face as he bursts through the double doors, and stands triumphantly before the glitz and glamour of gambling alcoholics, as if they're gathered for him. Rhys is taken aback by the luxury and delusions of grandeur dripping off the walls.

Rhys has gone to the same clubs since he turned 18. The underground gay men’s bar he goes to with Hugo, or the place owned by Sasha’s on again off again boyfriend, August, that serves the best beer Rhys has ever tasted, imported all the way from Germany. He’s never felt a need to venture outside of his comfort fun, but suddenly seeing the vibrancy behind the walls of _The Handsome Jackpot,_ he starts to wonder what he’s been missing all this time.

Most of the men are wearing suits, with their ties loosened, or shirts undone to show an ungodly amount of chest hair. Women vary from formal evening dresses, to low rider jeans and a boob tube. Hugo has a wide Cheshire cat grin plastered across his face as he waltzes through the scene, greeting strangers like he's an old friend, and Rhys scurries along behind him pathetically. It's a wide, open floor, but is almost half the size of downstairs, and has golden railings for the balcony looking over the room they walked past coming in. Rhys peers over and sees the blinding lights reflect off a stage, occupied by scantily clad dancers and the money of desperate business men. He can’t see much other than blurry clusters he assumes are people grouped together.

It’s sensory overload, if he’s honest. Sure the bowling alley is loud, but this is a sinister chaos he’s not prepared himself for. He looks around as he consciously reminds himself how to breathe before his head explodes. The ringing of various slot machines, and the racketing noise of their levers being yanked harshly, followed by a barrage of jingling quarters. The sounds of cards whirring in the hands of the dealers, or glasses clinking as bartenders and alcoholics exchange secrets. The deafening whispers from losers, the soft yelling of winners, dancing together in a tango no one can catch. He blinks rapidly, trying to disperse the ache of the assault from the playground of neon and strobing lights. Mixed in the red is a plethora of gold and silver and bronze and exquisite fountains and statuary.

Is this what it feels like to matter? To be surrounded by luxury without any kind of worry or discomfort? Rhys feels bad to admit he likes it.

"Rhys, hurry up!"

Rhys sighs under his breath and gathers his cool as he spins on the balls of his feet toward Hugo. He whips past the gamblers that move between tables, and lands beside Hugo, who without a word of warning or patience, grabs Rhys' wrist and bullies his way past a few people, gaining them front row seats to the infamous golden roulette table Hugo had been boasting about.

Rhys knew very little about gambling as a whole, let alone this casino, but even he feels something guttural about the importance of this table. The luxury of its presence, and the desire to soak up its wealth. Looking around, he can see stars in everyone's eyes as they count their luck, and possibly the biggest stars are right beside him taking up Hugo's pupils. They don’t immediately spring into action so it seems. They spend a few minutes admiring the art, studying it like there’s any sport in lady luck. The clicking of the roulette wheel is harsh on Rhys’ ears. He watches with reluctant interest the way gold and white rush together as it spins.

The woman tending the roulette table is intimidatingly gorgeous. She has jet black hair flat as an ironing board down to her lower back, and a form fitting grey waistcoat with a formal black shirt, modestly unbuttoned beneath. She's a stoic woman, with icy blue eyes, and all the men around are staring at her like she’s the prize they win. She knows it too, and it disgusts her. She’s used to feeling men’s heavy lustful eyes on her, and it’s clear without the smoke and mirrors that she wants to choke them with their own sticky, itchy fingers. She catches Rhys’ gaze briefly, and in that nanosecond he feels like she’s shoved her hand down his throat to squeeze his heart. Rhys breaks their eye contact by turning to Hugo. His line of sight is focused on the felt numbers on the table, though he possesses the same dark allure for the game that the men around have for _her_.

"So what's the big deal about this casino?" He asks without looking at Hugo. The other man is unfocused too, busy watching the wheel spinning from the previous round.

"The jackpot hasn't been won yet, so it's value has gone up." He looks over his shoulder to see if anyone's listening before whispering "and rumour has it there's exclusive rooms dedicated to fucking here too, but it's all kept real hush hush. VIP's only…"

Rhys involuntarily scoffs. "You looking to get lucky in more than one way then?"

"God knows it would be nice to get some from someone that puts out." Hugo looks him up and down like he's dirt on the bottom of his shoe, resenting the truth that is Rhys' existence. Someone at the table stands to leave and Hugo slips in their place, flattening his hands over the wooden rim. Rhys should be used to his smart ass remarks, but they still manage to catch him off guard.

"So that rumour isn't an exclusive offer but more of an open invitation for any poor bastard here that falls for your charm?" Rhys crosses his arms when Hugo whips round and snarls at him.

"You're a real jokester, ain't ya?"

It's pretty common for them to bite each other every other interaction. Nerves Rhys used to have can't compete with his repressed anger. He’s not sure why he still tolerates Hugo, in all honesty...

“I don’t know if this is exactly the best way for us to afford a get away, Vasquez,” He tugs on Hugo’s shirt and ignores the obvious annoyance from his partner’s scoff. “What’s wrong with going old school and just, you know, saving up?”

Rhys expects some backhanded response or caveman grunt, but instead Hugo shocks him with something malicious. He leans in close, keeps his tone level and whispers;

“Sometimes you’re so boring, I want to _shoot_ myself.”

He’s grinning as he pulls away. He knows he’s hurt Rhys by saying that, and that’s exactly what he wanted. He wanted it to feel like a bullet to the heart. Rhys feels it run through him.

He decides to stay quiet after that. His opinion isn't necessary or welcome. Hugo wants to impress Rhys, but he doesn't want to look too eager in their dynamic. He doesn't want anyone around them to think Hugo cares about Rhys. The fear that someone might think they have sex, or worse, _kiss_ , and _like_ eachother...the idea makes Hugo dizzy with dread.

Every so often, wait staff come by the table to take orders. Hugo shouts out for a beer, no regard for the fact he’s driving, and before Rhys can give his own order he’s answered for. A Strawberry Daiquiri. Rhys doesn’t like cocktails. When the drinks come back, Rhys takes his glass and sighs.

Sadness drains through him. He stirs his thick drink with the umbrella stick and watches the gamblers around cheer on their wins, happy to be alive and in the moment. Hugo has moments of victory, and his gratitude booms through like a stampede. Rhys doesn’t even flinch when he jumps up to celebrate, or balls up his fists in misery. The regret that he came along runs through every cell of his body. He feels hollow, and uncomfortably familiar with that feeling.

Hugo and Rhys met when they were in highschool. Rhys was never the most spry of athletes, while Hugo was on several sport teams, and excelled in gym class like someone had threatened his life to be the very best. Hugo was beloved by almost the entirety of their school, bringing them home a couple dozen game wins against rival highschools. Baseball, basketball, football, and thanks to Rhys' dad striking up a sponsorship with the school, bowling.

That's when Rhys' invisibility became a thing of the past. Suddenly the kings of his school knew who he was, in particular the man of the hour, Hugo Vasquez. The bowling team had free access to the alley on weekdays, and Rhys of course forced by his father to work the evening shift after a full day of school, became their comical "mascot". He was playfully teased by a team of Neanderthals, and affectionately bullied outside of _The Lucky Striker_ , to keep the status quo of the school food chain...with the exception of Hugo.

Hugo was kind to Rhys in their short interactions. He asked how Rhys' weekends were when he saw him Monday morning at school. He complimented Rhys' eccentric shirts when he exchanged his shoes over the counter. He walked Rhys home nights where his father would leave him to lock up at 11pm. For some reason, Hugo was willing to give Rhys the time of day he didn't even fully give his own teammates, and eventually that led to something more.

Rhys was sitting on a bench in the boys locker room, his head tilted upward for Hugo to inspect and check if his nose was broken. Rhys’ skin was sticky hot, with adrenaline, only getting warmer the longer Hugo touched him. Innocent strokes under his chin, a thumb cascading across his cheek...he was so gentle.

“ _Wouldn’t take you to be the fighting type?_ ” Hugo’s voice was low and gruff even in highschool. It used to make Rhys melt.

“ _Don’t see the point letting some douchebag push me around without at least doing something. Even if it is...useless._ ”

Hugo was smiling. He always looked so happy around Rhys. It was so natural for Hugo to be carefree and thriving off worldly wonder. Rhys’ heart felt like it was lodged in his throat.

“ _You’re real feisty, Strongfork, ya know that?_ ” But there was something more intense deep in his eyes as he spoke. A curiosity begging to be torn apart. Rhys didn’t care about blood dripping out his nose and coating his lips anymore. He didn’t care about the iron taste, or the world outside the locker room. Nothing mattered but Hugo…

The feeling was too strong to not be mutual.

Next thing they knew, they were locking lips, caught in a frenzy of heat and passion that surprised them both. Blood slipped between the gaps of their lips, and coated both their teeth, but they didn’t care. All that mattered was where their hands were going and how much closer they could get. Hugo’s hot breath made Rhys moan like nothing ever had. The bashful crooked smile that greeted him when they pulled away was so perfect and pure. Hugo’s swollen lips and blood stained teeth made Rhys want to rip his heart out of his chest as an offering...it was a sublime moment of absolute purity, Rhys truly believed he had found his forever love.

Now he’s an addict chasing that high. He yearns so desperately for more, to numb the pain he’s trying to pretend isn’t there. Hugo gave him butterflies and sweaty palms and a light at the end of the tunnel. All Rhys wants is to know the lights still there, to guide him home, wrap him up and keep him safe. He wants what they had.

The slim hope that is near extinction now is all he’s got...

 _This_ Hugo is sleazy and egotistical. _This_ Hugo before him, wearing his finest satin shirt that clings to his pecs, cologne that seeps into every pour, and mistakes common decency with the need to assert his dominance - this isn't his love, but it's the closest he's got.

Round after round goes by, and Hugo's luck is never consistent. With every spin of the roulette wheel, the clicking of the ball bouncing off the metal pockets substitutes hands on a clock, and Rhys becomes more anxious about Hugo’s money dwindling away. He’s had some success, won about $500...before just as quickly losing double the amount next round. Rhys wants to just pull him away and pour alcohol down his throat till he’s passed out and unable to irritate him.

Maybe he could throw his fruity cocktail at him and lead him away via a chase scene?

He’s pulled out of his daydream when Hugo curses loudly and necks the rest of his beer aggressively, spilling suds down his beard. A few guests give him a suspicious look or smirk, but it’s nothing too noticable. Rhys peers over to see a collection of checkered chips huddled together be whisked away by the dealer, styled with the champion cheers of people across the table. When Rhys looks at Hugo, he's grumbling under his breath while preparing a new set of chips to place on the numbers printed on the tables felt board.

This time there's success though. The balls lands within the pocket Hugo needs, and chips are pushed toward Hugo for his enjoyment. $1300 in total. Rhys is quiet as Hugo boasts. His arrogance clearly annoys the other players, and Rhys wants to laugh. _They have no idea_ , he thinks, rolling his eyes when Hugo clicks at a waitress to order them more drinks. Another beer and another fruity cocktail.

Rhys is timid to even breathe too loudly, but he finds the courage to place his hand on Hugo's shoulder as he's moving a big amount of chips toward the felt numbers.

"Hugo, I think you should stop now while you're ahead," Rhys makes the attempt to care, but his suggestion falls on ignorant ears. He'd almost prefer if Hugo just ignored him, the condescending smirk and snort is blood boiling. Surely enough after a another round, all the money he won just as easily disappears into the hands of another. The cheers from his side of the table boom through the already lively sounds of the casino, and they rattle through Hugo's skull, taunting him. Rhys wants to gloat, but even without a trace of delight over the misery that exudes off him, Hugo whips round to give him a death glare all the same.

"Now look what'cha did!"

Rhys' hates how his instincts shrink him down. Hugo thrusts himself from the stool and towers over Rhys like a brick wall, his rage like hanging ivy covered in thorns. Hugo is Rhys' height, but he's broad, built like a builder, and that makes Rhys feel the size of a mouse. He stumbles back clumsily.

"Uh oh, lovers spat!" Someone at the table shouts out. What follows is a collection of snooty laughter and dirty looks - the looks Hugo fears most - and Rhys prepares himself for the fury to descend upon him. He can already see it brewing, tightening in the knots of Hugo's shoulders as he slowly turns to face the stranger. He can feel the fingers grabbing at his shirt already, his back slamming against the wall, hours before it's even happened.

"What did you say, buck?" Hugo's voice drops. He laughs mockingly, then hauntingly stops. He leans against the roulette table, digging his nails into the golden wood. "You talking to me?"

The man - an average businessman with his suit undone to allow him to relax - scoffs and rolls his eyes, aggravating Hugo further. "You and your boyfriend, yeah."

The B word. A forbidden secret even Rhys forgets sometimes. Hearing it is like fingers around his throat. Hugo's back may be to him now, but he knows how he must look. His thick black eyebrows knitted into a suspicious frown, and his dark brown eyes baring through the bullseye he's imagining. His top lip is hooked on an imaginary rod, and he snarls his pearly whites like a feral dog. Hugo doesn't suit anger, but he holds it well all the same.

"Watch your fucking mouth." He grunts. The guests around them turn sour at the tone, and Rhys tries to shrink down into himself and disappear.

"What's the problem, I was just joshing y'all."

As the man turns to face his friend, giving her a stink eye in behalf of how Hugo's left the air, Hugo slams his hands down in the table and startles them all. Rhys is officially mortified.

"Do you know who I am, huh?! I'm Hugo God damn Vasquez, got it?! I'm a motherfucking VIP, champion sportsman and winner! Not a loser who dates some fa--"

"Hay."

A disturbingly quiet voice stops him in his tracks, and when Rhys looks from behind his hand he sees it's the woman manning the table. She's glaring at him, a simple but sinister raised eyebrow, but it's effective like the barrel of a gun pushed against his temple would be. Rhys feels an icy shiver run down his spine…

Hugo grunts out a disinterested "What?" The corner of the woman's lips curl.

"Unless you want to lose your front teeth, I'd suggest quietly escorting yourself out of my vicinity."

Rhys stares at Hugo, waiting for a reaction. Rhys can't see Hugo's face, but he can guess it's stuck as he furiously racks his brain for a fitting reaction. Eventually he decides on a chuckle.

"Is this a joke?"

But all he gets is a cold stare, and something about the stiffness of the woman makes Hugo retreat. He straightens up and flicks the collar of his shirt out before whipping round on his heels. He motions for Rhys to follow him, and the hesitation in Rhys' feet makes him impatient as he grabs Rhys' wrist to drag him out of the roulette section. Rhys winces, looking back at the judgemental eyes grateful for their departure.

Hugo pulls Rhys through the crowd to step out on the balcony, tossing Rhys to stagger in front of him. No one around them seems to even notice they exist let alone the obvious. tension

"You just lost me 3 freakin' grand!"

Rhys' eyes bulge wide at the accusation. "In what way can I possibly even do that with a roulette table, even if I want to?! You owe me $1000, I wouldn't root for you to lose!"

"Oh you _love_ bringing that one up, don't you? If you're so precious about your money, princess, you shouldn't have offered it to me."

Rhys wants to make a remark about how he didn't exactly offer the money like Hugo implies, but was rather guilt tripped with threats, but he figures now isn't the time for being pedantic.

Instead he sighs and crossed his arms. "If you really hate people thinking we're a couple, you probably shouldn't invite me out all the time."

"Maybe you shouldn't dress so obviously like a--"

"I wear this to the club all the time with Vaughn and we have no problem picking girls up, so that's really not the problem." He knows he shouldn't talk back to Hugo, especially about this kind of thing, but he's tired of the internalised homophobia biting him in the ass.

Hugo raises a brow, silently taking in his words, before bellowing out in laughter mockingly. He doubles over, holding his stomach like it's funny enough to give him cramps, and wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. When he straightens back up and composes himself, he's got that slimy self egregious smirk he likes to parade around with. His dark features burn through Rhys.

“It’s hard to believe you get any attention from men, let alone drunk, slutty women with standards, no matter how low they may be!” He moves in to close the space between them. His breath pours over Rhys’ face like volcanic lava. He raises his hand to pinch Rhys’ chin between his thumb and forefinger, and Rhys flinches back so hard he accidentally bumps the railing of the balcony. A sharp panic bolts through him as he imagines how easy it would be for Hugo to toss him over the edge and end his miserable existence.

 _Why do you give me attention then?_ He thinks to himself as he stares back into Hugo’s sinister gaze. His heart literally aches in these moments, facing the man who used to bring him such joy and feeling an intense hatred brew. He would give anything for those butterflies he got in High school, when they’d sneak away just to be alone and drink up the affection in something as small as a look. Now he feels compelled to tolerate the abuse, to withstand the trials of time and wait for the good again. If Hugo was once sweet and compassionate, and he stuck around despite his own detestable ego, then surely the heart Rhys fell for was still in there, right?

“You better hope I win back my money tonight, Strongfork, or things won’t be pretty…”

He pushes against Rhys’s jaw lightly and strolls toward a group of women having a smoke. He leans up against the wall with an arm high above the nearest girls head, and they all immediately flash bulging heart eyes. Rhys watches for a few seconds, feeling hollow, before finally deciding to save himself from the pathetic charade altogether...

He quickly moves through the casino ground to rush downstairs. Music feels better than the clatter of levers being pulled, or money spilling down on metal. It's nearly a relief when he walks through the doors into the--

 _Strip club_.

Oh, right...

There’s a huge, extravagant stage as long as half the room, currently occupied by a curvaceous woman wearing thigh high rhinestone boots and low riding leather shorts, with sinful fluorescent lights illuminating her act and casting a shadow over the dark eyes watching. There’s a few clothed tables sparsely placed around the room, but the best seats seem to be around the stage - and noticeably they’re all currently occupied by desperate men wolf whistling for even an inch of attention. The bar across the walkway, where girls grind against sweaty needy men and take their hard earned cash, is slick and glamourous, with an enormous mirror reflecting back the chaos of the dance floor.

As Rhys moves through the crowd, awkwardly apologising to dancers as they bump past him, he feels like he’s dancing on the Northern Lights; the dry-ice swirling in red velvet sheets, acid greens, hot pinks and gold. The music played over the dance floor as if it had fused with the victims of performance, and it took a lot of self control for Rhys to stop himself from joining them. Eventually he makes it to the bar and exhales the heavy weight of the world thick in his lungs.

“What’ll it be, boy-o?” A thick Irish accent makes its way through the booming music.

Rhys doesn’t lift his head properly, but rolls it on his neck to just be able to see the bartenders neck.

“Scotch on the rocks. Make it a double.”

The service is impressively quick. His drink is placed in front of him quick as can be, and he hears the bartender compliment him nonchalantly. Something about being pretty, Rhys didn't quite catch it. He's too focused on the warm relief of a drink he likes.

Rhys leans on the bar, full weight against the edge, and runs his finger around the rim of his glass. The dirty off colour brown of his scotch is haunting. He could drown in it if he focuses enough. That desire resonates from somewhere deep in Rhys, flowing through his bones, flooding his nerves and thrashing every inch of space that tries to find an escape. Life has him in a chokehold, constantly, he doesn’t remember the last time he took a deep breath without tasting salt and fire. He’s exhausted.

He takes the scotch and throws it down his throat, slamming the glass back down on the bar. The bartender turns to the sound and knows to get him a refill. Booze eases his aches. It eases his stress. He watches as the liquor splashes against the glass, and nods to the bartender when he walks away.

He hates Hugo. Truly, he does. He made a mistake thinking he was the same cocky but charming dope from highschool. He’s good in bed, though. That’s Rhys’ other stress relief. Hugo’s the only other attractive man in their town willing to sleep with a man, and he’s the only man Rhys has ever slept with, so he doesn’t feel like he can be picky. If he could, Hugo would be the last on his list. He’s glad he can’t see him from the corner of the bar. He’s somewhere in the chaos, gambling his money, laughing like he’s a big shot, grabbing girl’s bums and daring to glare at them afterwards when they gasp. If Hugo was just egotistical, that would be one thing, but it’s so much more that Rhys detests. A black eye is like sugar compared to watching his desperate attempts at earning respect. Hugo is a wheesly, snivelling excuse of a man, and often Rhys wants to just throttle him in front of everyone, show them how pathetic he really is. He figures his fingers digging in his neck would relieve him.

Hugo hates Rhys drinking scotch. He's categorised him so his own fragile masculinity doesn't combust. When they go to clubs, he orders Rhys cocktails. If Rhys dares to have a cigarette, Hugo snatches it and stomps it out. It's all the small, unnoticeable things Rhys does that are less than dainty that makes Hugo snarl, has the hairs standing on the back of his neck. Rhys could breathe too loud and Hugo would consider pushing his testicles back up inside himself.

He orders all the scotch he desires now. Fuck Hugo. Every gulp Rhys takes is another reminder he hates Hugo. Fuck his clumsy, meaty hands, and fuck his shovel head jaw, and fuck his self importance because he won a national trophy in bowling. Every glass is prayer he finds the nerve to end things. Whether it was after they first slept together, or after Hugo punched him, or tonight if his drunk self is feeling particularly suicidal.

Every sip goes down like honey coated fire, Rhys actually basks in the burn. No wonder his mother used to drink.

Before he realises it, he's drunk, and his legs feel like damp cotton. His arms radiate with the static of a television and pulsate against the drum beat of the quiet music. The chaotic rumblings of his surroundings sedate the busyness in his own head, but nothing more. He’s still swimming in a dizzy kind of torture, but now it dances _around_ him, not _with_ him.

His face brightens dramatically. He calls the bartender for another drink. His blissful smile extends his eyes and drills deep into his soul. Happiness grows, much like spring flowers open, thriving off the magic in his liquor. The music is distant, but he knows the tune. Nursing his latest drink, he listens, shrinking down into himself as he squints and hums along…

He gasps dramatically and slams a hand down on the bar.

“Watching through windows, you’re wondering if I am okay,” He sways along to the lyrics and drums out of sync against the bar. He doesn’t even notice the other guests staring at him, let alone care. He’s found a familiar song, and he’s content.

“Nice pipes, kid.”

Rhys doesn’t even realise someone’s speaking to him at first. He’s too busy singing along.

“Hay, scotch on the rocks,” follows with a hard knock on the bars wood in front of Rhys. That gains his attention. He swings his head over his shoulders, as if it needs to catch itself off the movement, and looks over at the man leaning toward him…

The boozy fog dispurses. This stranger, eyeing Rhys up like the polished trophy of a rival, has the kind of face that stopped people, and has a smug glimmer like he's used to that - the sudden pause in a person's natural expression when they looked his way followed. All Rhys can offer after too much silence is overcompensating pleasantries. A nonchalant gaze and a weak smile.

He’s caught off by a strong, cocked jaw, mouth agape with the stick of a lollipop against his pink lips, and bold, striking heterochromia eyes baring through him. Shockingly, he notices the vibrancy and striking features of his face before he even notices the mask. A perfect fit moulded to look exactly like a human face, detailed and perfect bar a slight rise in skin tone, and there are thick, matte grey bolts screwed into his skull. He's never seen anything quite like it. Rhys can only think of a string of curse words in his presence.

There’s silence. Nothing’s even said through their gaze.

Eventually the stranger scoffs and straightens up. “You realise this is a casino and not a karaoke bar, right?” He speaks around the candy. His accent is slightly mismatched - the brawling punch of a New Yorker saddled with the swing of Canadian.

Rhys’ swallows hard, and his bubbling brain acts faster than his skittish heart.

“Rhys.”

He doesn’t say anything else. His voice is slurred.

“Excuse me?”

“My name. It’s Rhys...Rhys is me!”

He’s not embarrassed now, but the hungover flashbacks next morning will tear him up for sounding so idiotic. Rhys never usually gets flustered around people, but there’s something about this man unlike most, that brings out a repressed yearning he’s never been able to get familiar with.

Quiet. Rhys’ lips curl a bit more.

“I’m Jack.” The intimidating man says it with a level of disinterest, but Rhys notices clear as day how Jack’s eyes fall down his body. It's the same way Hugo looks at him when the world is watching Rhys thrive.

He's intimidating, most definitely, in a way that makes Rhys want to shrink down to the size of a mouse. He's also warm. Comfortably so. It radiates off him, strokes Rhys' nerves and wraps itself around his limbs. He feels if he's not careful he'll fall through Jack's frame and suffocate on the sweetness. Rhys has known fear more than most, but the nerves in his stomach are like butterfly wings, not pterodactyls.

Jack leans in a little closer to Rhys. He stinks of cigarettes and cologne, with just a hint of strawberries. Rhys' drunken self wants to see if his taste will sober him up.

"You're looking a little wobbly there, Bambi, and you’re singing like a freakin’ back alley premadonna. D'ya need anything?"

His voice is sexy, too. It makes Rhys giggle embarrassingly under his breath. He's too drunk to care. Rather, he attempts to speak but mistakes his feet for his mouth and trips into the broad man's arms.

"Woah there, pumpkin!" He huffs as he catches Rhys, the wind getting knocked from him. His hands move to hold him better, one sliding under his armpit, the other to his waist. He looks annoyed, but in the kind of gentle, forgiving way an exhausted parent might. Rhys doesn't mean to, but he ends up leaning his full body weight against Jack, with his face a few inches from his. The way Rhys is gawping at him, eyes huge like dinner plates, seemingly tickles Jack and makes him smile.

"S-sorry! I uh, didn't realise how much I'd had to drink...it's kinda hit me now, suddenly, when you…" Rhys swallows the lump caught in his throat. He pushes out of Jack's arms and stabilises himself against the wood of the bar. His face is turning a beautiful shade of pink. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise, kid. Your addiction lines up my pockets, so who's complaining?" Jack snorts out softly. Rhys watches as he signals the bartender - he looks familiar somehow, like a sunny distant dream from a night passed, but he's so quick to serve Jack and get back to other customers, Rhys doesn't get a chance to actually look at him. Jack's ordered a cosmopolitan. Rhys rolls his eyes.

"No thank you."

The unasked dismissal prompts Jack to arch his brow, confused. "Did I offer you something, kid?"

Rhys glances at the drink. There's a pause, then Jack projects a mocking laugh at Rhys. The genuine smile suddenly pulls upward with a sinister twist.

"You're cute, but this is for me."

"O-oh! Really? You…" He looks back at the fruity drink between Jack's fingers. He has the rim of the glass against his lips, waiting for Rhys to finish his train of thought. It doesn't come through, and instead he just snickers. "Okay."

Jack sips his drink leisurely and grumbles. "If a dweeb like you can chase scotch as if your life depends on it, then why can't I drink cocktails?" As he puts the drink back down, he leans against the bar with his elbows on the wood, and looks out on the crowd. Rhys lets his eyes wander Jack's stance, analysing him, trying to get a read on him as a person, despite the twisting of his drunken gaze.

"Have you won big yet, Rhys?" Jack asks, leaning on the bar and resting his head in his hand. Rhys laughs quietly, shaking his head.

"I haven't tried anything myself, I'm not much of a gambler."

"Ah just here for the tits then?"

"Wha-what?!"

"I'm kidding...kind off-- I mean, you are a few feet from a strip pole, where Candy Double D's is currently using her assets to secure a down payment on a home…" Jack looks over his shoulder and nods toward the very scene he described; a young woman with voluptuous assets collecting hundred dollar bills from the hypnotised gentleman watching her. Rhys stumbles over himself to reply but Jack holds up his hand. "I'm yanking your chain, kid. You're too easy to make sweat."

"Sorry I-- just, I don't want to be seen as a pervert."

"Probably the wrong place to drown your sorrows then. Could be worse, you could be trying to fuck one of the girls."

"I'm sure they get pretty sick of guys hitting on them."

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind a pretty guy like you. One look at your long fingers and they'd probably soak through their panties."

Rhys splutters through the sip he takes of his drink and coughs all over the bar. He can hear Jack laughing, and then a strong hand is smacking his back repeatedly. Suddenly another drink is in front of him, though it's water. Rhys gulps it down.

"Too crude for you, kid?" Jack asks, the rim of his glass against his lips as he watches Rhys' flushed expression. Rhys laughs awkwardly with a broken smile.

"Maybe a little. Sorry." He coughs on the end of his words.

"Don't sweat it." He throws back the rest of his drink and licks his lips, turning to lean back against the bar while admiring the scenes around them.

Everything is so loud. Rhys feels like the beat drives him, controls all his senses. The distorted colour of Jack's shirt jirates with the thunderous drum, the patterns practically jumping out and tying Rhys in knots. It's tacky, the rusty yellow shades on his shirt, with way too many buttons undone to reveal his chest hair, and the rolled up sleeves cutting into the bulge of Jack’s biceps. His suspenders are similar, hugging his body in such a way someone might think they don’t fit, but it looks good on Jack. His whole attire, though dressed down and out of place, somehow pulls itself together and looks sophisticated. Maybe Rhys has just had one too many glasses, but he’s actually into Jack’s fashion sense…

Maybe whisky has made Rhys blind?

Or Jack’s shirt has.

Either way, Jack’s alluring, and still here, looking over at Rhys and grinning. He’s here when Hugo isn’t, being someone Hugo isn’t, and whether it matters who that someone is, Rhys is glad Jack’s here all the same. He feels his blood run warm the longer he looks at Jack.

Jack glances around himself before leaning into Rhys’ ear. “Want to get some fresh air?” His voice is low and sultry. He sounds like he's been shouting for a while, it's started to catch up with him. Rhys has to resist the urge to shiver and give over a part of himself he'd love. He turns to face Jack, lips agonisingly close, and thick, and pink.

"I'm probably too wobbly to make it through the crowd-"

"Here," he holds out his arm. Rhys looks at the gap between his forearm and ribs. "I'll keep you stable."

"Do you pick up drunk strangers at the bar often?"

"Ha, not many people look as good as you, princess."

Princess.

Suddenly he thinks about Hugo. Suddenly, all he sees is black and blue and the slimy grin of a man caught up in power. He sees a shattered version of himself that's been lost in the shadows for too long and he's forgotten how to put himself back together. When Jack calls him princess it's inviting, charming, and he wants to give into him way too easily.

"Why though?” Seems a part of Rhys’ sensibility is still manning the controls, much to Jack’s amusement.

“Your face is turning redder every second we speak so I figured you were hot. Would you rather I left you to sulk with your drink?”

“Sulk?! Hay I wasn’t sulking-”

“Well whatever you were doing, wanna keep doing it alone?”

Rhys didn’t need to think about it. The company is appreciated, especially when it’s not passive aggressive or pushing guilt on him for merely existing.

“Chop chop, kid, it’s not that hard to make a de-”

“Lead the way.” Rhys cuts him off and links his arm with Jack’s. The other man grins, and does exactly that, manoeuvring through the rambunctious crowd effortlessly. Rhys doesn’t need to worry about being bumped into or falling over his two left feet, because it seems Jack has a powerful presence at the casino. He holds a power undisclosed.

-

Rhys walks tentatively through the archway into the lounge, watching as Jack opens up the huge balconet to let the night air breeze through. He'd been concerned when Jack walked him from the bar through to the tinted glass doors behind the entrance hallway's stairs, guarded by security. It was all too simple though, just as easy as Hugo made getting in look earlier, Rhys was stumbling into a quiet hallway with just an elevator at the end of it. 5 floors, two up, and two down. Rhys was confused, to his knowledge they were on the bottom floor, so how were there two more beneath them?

But he was drunk, and Jack's cologne was making Rhys want to pin him to the wall and suck him off then and there. He'd never smelled cologne with such a powering tone to it - maybe it was less about the smell, and more about how horny Rhys was.

He's nervous though. The top floor of the casino, reserved only for the absolute most prestigious, A.K.A the owners nearest and dearest. So Jack is the one and only Handsome Jackpot, and Rhys had absolutely no idea. He's stood in what may as well be a tacky billionaire's living room, pleasantly amused to watch Jack pick out a record from his mahogany cabinet filled with records, and spin the disk between his fingers before placing it carefully on the player. The needle scratches the disk, and Billy Joel _Piano Man_ plays through the room.

"So you own this club?" Rhys asks. Jack watches him as he moves toward the small bar with dozens of bottles to pick from in a glass cabinet. He laughs as he undoes a glass of vodka.

"You impressed?" He makes himself a fruity concoction and Rhys another scotch. He laughs when Rhys stays stuck to the entrance frame. "Show some hustle before I throw your ass out the window, will ya?"

Rhys does hurry toward him, taking his drink and sipping it as he joins Jack to look out the window. The view is behind the Vegas strip, but still glows like the gates of heaven have opened to cast light.

"Feel better?" Jack asks, not looking over at Rhys.

"Sure, though I've seen enough bad straight to TV horror films to wonder if you're going to kill me…"

"TV rots your brain, kid. Plus if I was going to kill you, you'd be dead already." Jack leans back and rests his elbow on the mantle of the marble fireplace.

Rhys figures that Jack’s schtick stems from a place only rich people know. Where their problems come wrapped up in gold, revealing scratches but never scars. They buy humongous mansions and fast cars when they get paranoid about having too much money, and they convince themselves their boastful status is a safety net. It's like a fortress, tall gates with more security gadgets than a military compound. Perhaps behind those yellow bricks they feel safe from harm, but Rhys can't help think of it like a beautiful prison.

Despite the designer, luxury possessions all around, Rhys is transfixed by Jack. Maybe it’s just the way the fire catches every angle of Jack’s face, he's not sure. The way he leans against the fireplace mantel, looking past Rhys into the abyss of the balcony view, flames dancing across his tanned skin, shining against the matte cream of his mask. Rhys wants to touch it. He wants to know where Jack got such a thing, how it’s so perfectly sculpted around his features and moves according to his movements without cracking or popping off. The bolts are clean, there’s no scars around the skin available. Rhys wonders if the metal is cold.

The room is overwhelmingly large. It eats Rhys up, makes him feel insignificant. His eyes can’t focus on anything but what moves with the wonderful breeze drifting by, and Jack. He’s never been somewhere so lavish in his life, surrounded by expensive decor and sumptuous furniture, which Rhys thought only existed in old Hollywood movies his mother watches. It doesn’t suit Jack, truth be told. It’s not exciting enough.

Rhys looks over his shoulder at Jack and falls against the panel of the open balcony door. “Can I smoke up here?”

“Sure, knock yourself out, kid.”

“Do you have any cigarettes?”

Jack huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. He goes to open a rustique golden cigar box and pulls out a box of cigarettes, tossing them at Rhys. “Guessing you need a light to?” Jack asks with a smugness that makes Rhys blush. He nods awkwardly and Jack reaches in the box again. He walks over to stand in front of Rhys, definitely aware of the lack of space he’s left, and holds a mustard yellow lighter up.

Rhys pulls out one of the sticks and places it between his lips. He stares at Jack and awaits the flick of the lighter.

Jack arches a brow. “What, your hands don’t work, pumpkin?”

Rhys burns up and feels sick. His hand is shaky as he reaches for the lighter. Jack’s laugh bursts through him.

“Relax, jeeze...here.”

He pulls the spark wheel and Rhys leans in to catch the flame, inhaling and feeling his lungs fill up. He makes a point to pull as long as possible before his lungs start to crumble, and exhales the excess smoke into the air above them. Jack watches him like he’s a study case, his eyes focused on the bobbing of his adams apple.

Rhys didn't notice Jack's eyes fall to his arm. "Did you get the tats before or after the accident?" He asks, holding a hand out. Rhys freezes suddenly, his heart in his throat. He can't tell if Jack's signalling for his prosthetic or his flesh hand, and either makes him nauseous to reveal so openly.

He goes with his prosthetic, and it's the right assumption. Jack takes his hand gently like he's a valuable antique. His throat closes up as he tries to speak but he's able to push through. "After. I had planned to get them before though."

Jack hums. His fingers run over the smooth plastic of Rhys' knuckles. "Who made this bad boy?" He sounds genuinely interested. It takes Rhys by surprise. He's used to trying to steer attention away from his arm.

"It uh, a guy from Sweden working on prosthetics alternatives. He's big into experimental stuff so he built this. I'm like a human guinea pig, you know."

"Not bad. You avoided paying out then?"

"Basically...it has some bugs but most prosthetics don't move so I'm grateful for having working thumbs at all."

Jack laughs through his nose. His interest is an earnest effort, expressed by the slightest curve at the mouth's corner and a confidence worn in a light raise of the eyebrow above a quizzical, joyful eye. Rhys don't trust falling for it completely, knowing how fast it is to be labelled weak by the same people who should love him, but he can't help appreciate the fluttering in his chest. Jack gives him back his hand.

"I'd love to hear about the work gone into it. I've had some experimental work done too, if it isn't obvious." He gestures to his face. Rhys smiles. Despite how eager he is to ask about it and know more behind the mask, he resists. It’s too risky, delving into something so personal with a man clearly wrapped up in power. One wrong move and who knows what could happen.

It’s unnerving for sure, being basically locked away in the penthouse of a casino owner's establishment, but Rhys doesn’t feel bad about the nerves in his stomach. In fact, he likes it.

“This place is really modern, I like it.” He looks back out into the open, steering the conversation to something easy. They’re so high up, it feels like he’s in the sky, living amongst the clouds.

He doesn’t expect Jack to come up behind him, with a mer inch or two between them, and sigh like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. But he is, and he’s there, leaning in over Rhys’ shoulder and extending his arm out to point into the horizon. God, Rhys is far too drunk to keep himself sane right now.

“I live a couple blocks down but it’s a big ol’ place, you can see it from here.” His voice is proud. Rhys follows the direction of his finger and notices the tall, wide mansion out in the distance. “It’s a swell place, good neighbourhood too.”

“You live there with anyone?” Rhys tries to keep his tone light, but as soon as he says it he can feel the weight of his intentions. Jack obviously feels it too, as he chuckles under his breath and moves round to stand at Rhys’ side. He leans against the opposite side of the door frame and buries his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

“Some staff and my daughter, that’s all.”

“Oh, you have a daughter?”

“Yeah, good kid. Hopefully better than me.”

That prompts Rhys to laugh. “What’s so bad about you then?” He asks, taking another drag of his cigarette. He watches as Jack purses his lips at the question, mulling it over and really dissecting every answer he could potentially give Rhys. Eventually he just shrugs.

“There’s a lot probably. My wife used to say I was too materialistic.”

Rhys looks around himself and snorts. “Maybe a little.”

Jack laughs in return, and it’s refreshing to have someone actually take Rhys’ quick wit without any hang ups or dirty looks. It’s been a long time since Rhys has felt relaxed in anyone’s presence - he didn’t expect the calm to come in the form of a brooding stranger.

It’s quiet, then Jack cuts in with “I’m not married anymore, by the way.” Rhys is a little thrown off by the abruptness, but admittedly the clarification does make him smile, and Jack notices.

“Do you like to tell everyone you’re not married?” Rhys doesn’t realise he’s biting his bottom lip until he notices Jack’s eyes drop to admire it. Has he been biting his lip the whole time? When did he start doing that? Jack looks like he’s getting closer, but Rhys can’t tell if it’s the booze in his blood or the heat in the air that’s moving Jack. All Rhys knows right now, is he likes that Jack’s so close, so intimate with him right now.

Then Jack’s body is pressed against him. His head is tilting, his eyes have fallen, and his hand snakes round the small of Rhys’ waist. How did Rhys get here? Does he even care? Absolutely not, but still, it’s sudden. He’s not used to the attention without razor blades choking him out. Jack smells so good, his body so firm, and Rhys can’t resist meeting his kindness with his hands on his shoulders.

“I thought you’d like to know just in case…” Jack whispers through the growl of his voice. Rhys tightens his grasp against Jack’s shirt.

“In case of what, Jack?”

Saying his name feels so dangerous, but so natural at the same time. As if the letter could tear him apart, rip out his tongue and bury the little voice he has left 6 feet beneath the ground, but it doesn’t. In fact, Jack’s wicked smile curls a little more in response, and he leans in so their noses graze against one another. He’s breathtakingly close, literally…

Jack’s lips are soft. His bottom lip is bigger than his top. He’s not fueled by the repressed rage swarming his blood; like Hugo. His kiss doesn’t whisk Rhys away, rather it keeps his feet firmly planted on the ground. He feels the realness of Jack’s lust, how just one kiss is so deeply steeped in passion. Rhys’ hands slowly move toward Jack’s neck, and slide upward to cup his face. Jack is real. His kiss is real. It’s a promise of realness, of the primal desire that lives in every living person. Jack pulls him closer so there’s no space left between them, and his strong hold replaces the security of the door frame. Rhys can feel the beating of Jack’s heart against his chest. He can feel the slight swell of his belly against his own abdomen. He can feel the definite bulge in his slacks…

Jack pulls away gently, a heavy breath falling alongside the gap between them. Rhys’ stare is wide eyed and hopeful. He can see the specs of dust and golden flakes in Jack’s beautiful heterochromia eyes.

“I’ve never met someone else with different coloured eyes.” Rhys sounds like he’s just run a mile. His cheeks are rosy, and he can feel the heat spreading over his cheeks to the tips of his ears. The mask is even more extravagant with barely a hair's breadth between them. Every fine detail of Jack’s sharp features can be admired, and even the details given by father time, like the bags under his eyes or the crows feet when he smiles or the nasolabial folds that dig in deep when he speaks, they’re all so real.

“No? Well, you got real pretty eyes, you know?”

“Thanks. One from my mom, one from my dad.” Rhys chuckles, pushing back the loose strand of hair that’s fallen out of place from Jack’s perfectly quaffed hair. Jack watches his fingers as they move.

"I'll send them a thank you letter."

"Thanks Mr and Mrs Strongfork for having sex so I can look at your son- yeah I'm sure they'd love that. Want me to deliver it?"

"Sure, smartass, if you don't mind."

Rhys' laugh is uncontrollable, he bares all his teeth and gums, and immediately feels vulnerable to his own fondness. But Jack's still holding him close, and before Rhys can say another word, Jack's kissing his jaw, making his way to Rhys' earlobe to nibble on, then swiftly moving down to suck on the sweet spot of his neck.

He loses himself in the affection. Each kiss breaks down Rhys’ resistance, the futile commitment he holds to Hugo crumbles. Eventually he can’t hold back anymore and he’s grinding against Jack, moaning like he’s never been touched before. His warm, delicate lips spur Rhys’ hands to do his bidding. They fall down his back, tuck into the back of his slacks, and squeeze the plush ass he’s glad Jack isn’t lacking.

Jack growls. He pulls back and pins Rhys up against the nearest wall. Both of them breathe heavily, staring down one another. Jack’s hands dig into Rhys’ boney hips.

“You’re drunk.” Jack breathes out.

“You’re hard.” Rhys retorts, speaking before his dignity can hold him back. Jack chuckles.

“I’m gonna have one of my guys drive you home, make sure you get back safely.”

Rhys widens his eyes, straightening his neck. “O-oh? I uh...did I do--”

“I’d love to tear that ass of yours in two, kiddo, don’t get it twisted, but I’d rather not fuck you when you’re shit faced. It’s my bad luck having morals.” He kisses Rhys on the cheek and pulls him off the wall. Rhys is taken back by the whiplash of the moment, but he’s not in the right mind frame to try to fight back. In fact, if anything, he knows Jack is right.

Plus a free ride home means he doesn’t need to go hunting down Hugo to get home.

So he follows Jack as he escorts him back to the elevator and through the casino again. Rhys hangs off him, falling over his feet in the process that Jack has to practically carry him through. He doesn’t pay much attention to who Jack speaks to or where they go, and before he knows it he’s sat in the back of a limousine while a hefty large man mans the wheel. Jack holds Rhys’ door open and leans down to kiss him again, dragging out the exchange that Rhys follows his lips for more when he pulls away. Rhys can’t help the puppy dog eyes he flashes as Jack looks at him.

“Wilhelm will take care of you. Just give him your address. See you soon, cupcake.” And with a wink, Jack closes the door and waves the car off as it pulls out from the casino parking lot.

Rhys’ short term memory becomes parts of a fun house, changing shape and meaning in the blink of an eye. He slurs out his address when the bulky driver requests it, and slips down into his seat further, giving into the heaviness behind his eyes. It all washes over him quickly. He can still taste Jack on his lips, that’s the only stability he knows. The drink has fully caught up with him now that he’s alone in the quiet. His stomach begins to heave in a sickly way while his head spins erratically.

See you soon, cupcake.

Was he being literal? He didn’t take any information from Rhys to contact him?

Rhys’ last thought before falling asleep slumped down in the limo seat is a single hope that Hugo gets home safely…

-

The elevator dings. 2 floors below the wildness. Jack strolls down the small space of the elevator and the room ahead and bursts through two large wooden doors into his sound proof den. He pops the collar of his shirt. He readjusts his Rolex watch and clicks his neck before meeting Zane’s gaze. The other man is still dressed in his smart bartender uniform, but his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his tie is loose. A cigarette hangs loosely from his lips. Over his shoulder is a heavy shovel with blood coating the rusted metal.

At his feet kneels a bloodied man on the brink of unconsciousness. His groaning sounds like a troubled ghost, and echoes off the empty walls. Jack can’t help but grin at the grim sight, near to laughing. He grunts as he squats eye level, and stares at the beaten man, waiting for the intoxicating drama in their tension to threaten him.

“Any reason this fella gets the shit beat out of him and lover boy’s boyfriend was seduced by Nish and Ni?” Zane asks, throwing the cigarette down on the concrete floor and stomping it out. Jack wrinkles his nose in disgust at the action.

“That sleeze only owes me a couple grand, no biggie. This douche was making eyes at my Angel when she dropped by last week…”

“S-sir, I-I didn’t re’--”

The wounded man is cut off when Jack abruptly grabs him by the throat and squeezes tight, delighted by the struggling gasps filling his lungs. It’s haunting, the same surviving an overdose is.

“I’m under no illusion Angel isn’t a looker, I mean, afterall, she takes after her old man...but when she’s in her school uniform, I’d at least hope it would be obvious wandering eyes should not be on her ass.” He squeezes tighter and the man splutters up. Tears started to fall down his cheeks. Jack smiles. He throws the man down aggressively so he lands on his back and gasps desperately for air. Jack pushes himself back up and takes the shovel from Zane.

“Did you have fun distracting that Rhys kid then?” Zane teases.

“A lot of fun...you sure he owns the bowling alley Angel goes to?” The two walk around the bloodied man on the floor so their opposite sides of one another. Jack leans on the shovel. Zane nods.

“Absolutely. An ass like his I recognise anywhere. He usually looks pretty miserable.”

“Yeah? Well,” Jack picks the shovel up and holds it in his hands ready to slam down on the man at his feet. His pleas for forgiveness fall on deaf ears. “I think I’ll take Angel to her next class, if it’s all the same.” And with that, the metal comes crashing down at full force on the man’s skull.


	3. You Make Loving Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys is hungover, which is the worst thing to be when your boyfriend is being threatened by the powerful casino owner you were making out with the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Themes of abusive relationships, and brief mention of homophobia and outing.

The first hangover Rhys ever had he'd been 17 at the time, hanging out with Sasha, Fiona and August at August's house. His mom didn't care what they did as long as they didn't break any of her belongings, so after the night they had sneaking into clubs with their fake I.D's, it was his house they'd deemed safest to stay and endure the effects of the morning after. It was around this time Rhys had had his first kiss with Hugo too.

 _"Did you suck his dick?!"_ Had been August's first priority, ignoring Sasha when she jabbed him in the ribs. He'd asked in such a way Rhys almost thought it was a threat - that was just August's day to day tone of voice. They were all awkwardly crammed inside his bedroom, laying across one another on his bed. Fiona was playing with Rhys' hair while he smoked the joint passed to him. It could be misconstrued as romantic if Fiona wasn't the lesbian mom of the group, ruling out any possibility she'd even consider him.

_"They were in school, you dumbass, he couldn't suck his dick!"_

_"Being in school doesn't mean shit, Sasha, you know that!"_

August had been mercilessly attacked once again for saying that, while Rhys and Fiona uncomfortably laughed at the crude revelation they'd rather not know about. After many playfully slaps and jabs, she settled back into place and August kissed her on the top of her head.

_“It was just a kiss...I really like him, you know? I think Hugo’s the one!”_

_“We’re still pretty young, Rhys,”_ Fiona said, holding his cheeks in her hands as she pulled his head upward to look at her. _“There’s a whole world out there you haven’t even seen yet, maybe even better than Hugo.”_

But Rhys was already in too deep. He’d achieved a moment of absolute happiness that made up for everything else he’d been through, and he didn’t want to lose it. He wanted to wrap himself up in that warm glow, hide from the truth and become the version of himself he’d been dreaming off. Hugo gave him butterflies, made his cheeks ache because his smile was so sharp, and in that moment with his friends, he well and truly believed he’d end up with Hugo happily ever after. 

He didn’t think Hugo would become his life long hangover. The aching in his stomach, the thumping in his skull, and how weak he felt because of it, he never thought Hugo would make him feel just as horrendous, if not worse.

Hangovers have never suited Rhys. The day after _The Handsome Jackpot_ , Rhys feels like death. Walking through his house getting ready for work, it’s as if someone is draped over his shoulders weighing him down. He’d already endured a lecture from his father for staying out half the night, and all that did was clog up his head like fog. His booze soaked subconscious had left him starving for more blissful dreams - as after being carried to the backdoor of the garage by Jack’s employee, Wilhelm (or “William” as Rhys kept calling him), he’d passed out on his bed stark naked, dreaming of Jack’s strawberry flavoured lips and heavy bulge pressed against him. Wrapped up in a thin blanket drearily humping his mattress wasn’t how he wanted his father to find him, but it was...

Then he was soaked by ice cold water, and sat in the freezing cold while enduring what felt like a presentation about all his failings as a son.

He doesn’t want to be in his house at all after that, so despite the splitting headache or his aching bones, he throws on some clothes and leaves. He doesn’t wait around for round 2 of his father’s reminder he’s a failure, nor does he pretend to have any kind of relationship with his mother and even grace her with a goodbye. He just leaves. 

He isn’t due at the bowling alley until later, but he decides he’d rather be working than endure his home life. He’d rather endure the horrendously loud clattering of bowling pins while his skull is splitting than be around his parents for a second longer. Of course Sasha and Vaughn are surprised to see him when he arrives, but the scowl accompanied by the bags under his eyes warn them to keep their distance. No cheerful hello, no quirp about the lack of music playing, just silence. 

He promptly fixes the lack of music and chooses ‘ _You Make Loving Fun_ ’ by Fleetwood Mac. It’s like instant serotine hearing the funky bass line, soon accompanied by the vocals that move through him like a summer’s breeze. He stands at the music player for a few seconds, hands gripping the table it sits on, and closes his eyes. 

He still feels a twinge of dizziness, the leftover alcohol not yet evaporated from his system, and it encourages his longing for Jack. As the tune carries through the room and overpowers the loud crashing of players at their lanes, Rhys begins to lose himself in the thoughts he didn’t get to embrace fully that morning. He thinks about how good it felt to be around Jack, how outside of his own existence it was to be in the lap of luxury, living _equally_ without any hang ups or catches. Rhys could still feel his lips on his, falling down his jaw to his neck, and he let his mind wander to fantasies of Jack among his palace of gold. A powerful man on his knees, looking up under his lashes while pulling Rhys' pants down to--

"Hay, Rhys!"

He's swiftly brought out of his fantasy to face the dreadful reality that is Hugo's irritable scowl staring him down. He knew he'd have to face the music sooner or later, but he still feels caught off guard somehow. Hugo leans over the counter and grinds his teeth, flashing his best shark's grin to intimidate Rhys. He looks almost as wrecked as Rhys, though more polished, like he's been practicing the art of dishevelment. It does Hugo a service, stripping him of his self righteous perfection, making him seem more human and relatable. Hell, the unkempt hair reminds Rhys of their school days, when Hugo would finish up a game of football and he'd be a sweaty mess. He suits the brutish messy aesthetic, unfortunately. 

Rhys does his best to smile, but the cracks are evident, as his cheeks raise and break the brittle facade of happiness he portrays. It’s an awkward grin, and the way Hugo raises his brow in annoyance proves he’s unimpressed by the weak gesture. 

“Hi, Hugo, how are--”

“Where did you end up last night? You left without any word?” Hugo crosses his arms and glares at Rhys. It’s obvious he’s annoyed, feeling like he went out of his way and Rhys is the bad guy in the situation. Though he would never admit it, Hugo is deeply insecure, and the moment Rhys stops paying him attention he reduces to a snivelling child desperate for attention. This display of territorial commitment does little to make Rhys feel safe. It makes him feel anxious, if anything, and he wants to throw caution to social queues and yell at Hugo until he’s blue in the face, telling him all the fiery resentment and hatred he harbours for him. 

Instead he does what he always does, comply with what is expected from him. He submits to the docile, awkward persona that is Rhys Strongfork. 

“I had a few too many drinks and one of the bouncers called me a cab. I guess you could say I was kicked out.” He forces out a laugh. It’s the bait for Hugo to ease up, not dissect and suspect that Rhys was actually up to other things. 

"Riiiiiight, and you didn't think calling my cell phone might have been a good idea?"

"You _know_ I only have access to a home phone, and my folks were fast asleep." He’s not lying by any means, but there is a certain underlining mischief that he hopes isn’t obvious. He _could_ have called Hugo regardless of his parents, if he was sober and could trust himself not to confess his drunken thrills. 

Thankfully Hugo takes the excuse. He's squinting, dubious, but smirks. "So how do you plan to make up for losing my big win last night? Because I'm free tonight if you want to come over and... _you know_ …"

Rhys has to resist visually grimacing. God, why _has_ he stayed with Hugo all this time? The redeeming features are all ghostly figments of who he used to be, and all there is now is a makeshift ghoul of Rhys' highschool sweetheart.

"I think I'm busy tonight. Got to visit the other businesses, you know--"

"Just send specs to go, or the loudmouth chick, what's her name..?"

"Sasha?" Rhys rolls his eyes. "No, just-- we can do something another day this week." He starts shuffling with miscellaneous things beneath the counter, deliberately avoiding making eye contact with Hugo's frustration. It's a familiar look, the annoyance that comes when Rhys turns down sex. It's pathetic.

"Don't be a priss." Hugo leans over the counter. Rhys does his best to ignore him, but then he feels Hugo's meaty hand come up beneath his chin. His forefinger tilts his chin up, and with a heavy sigh, Rhys lets his eyes jolt to follow the movement. Now looking at one another, Hugo grins. He uses his thumb to stroke Rhys' bottom lip. It's invasive, and creepy, and would only work to the effect Hugo thinks he's having if he was…

Well, someone like _Jack_.

Rhys really can't shift his thoughts from Jack for long. He hasn't felt so carefree and light in a long time, and now he has the fresh feelings as a point of comparison, he can say without a doubt, Hugo is a disappointment. He doesn't have the swarve charm that came so naturally to Jack. That, despite such a short encounter masked in drunken fog, left such a strong impression on Rhys, he can't help but compare the experience against Hugo. 

Hugo pulls Rhys' lips apart softly with the pad of his thumb, grinning as he admires the sight. It doesn't last long, though. His greasy flirting can only go on for so long before Rhys' body retracts instinctively, shuddering. He avoids Hugo's glare that follows.

"I'll check my diary later. Maybe we can go out for dinner?" It's a lousy offer, one Rhys knows won't be accepted, but he hopes all the same. As he often does. Despite his own growing disdain for Hugo, he still perseveres onward like they could have that happily ever after his teenage self hoped for.

Of course, Hugo isn't interested. He scoffs, and straightens up. "Dinner at _mine,_ maybe. You know how I feel about--"

"Yeah yeah, too romantic. Too _gay_ ," Rhys doesn't bother hiding his frustration as he emphasises the mocking tone. "We'll figure out a date later. I've got work to do." He begins filing through the forms below the register, ignoring the anger so evident in the other man.

However, as Hugo goes to speak again, he hears his name called and turns to face the entrance. There _The Sparkies_ walk in with their cheerleading parents, all delightfully chipper and eager for practice. One of the mothers, who could best be described as a mutton dressed as lamb, with her Barbie blonde extensions a shade brighter than the top of her head, and her makeup bolding exclaiming her presence where words wouldn't suffice, smiled with all teeth on show, batting her eyes at Hugo and awaiting his approval. By the exhausted look on her daughter’s face, she must be well versed in provocative relationships, and had her predatory eyes honed in on Hugo. Hugo sighs; he isn’t organically interested.

He looks over his shoulder one last time to scowl at Rhys before storming away, composing himself for the starry eyed tiger mom’s approval. Rhys lets out a long exhale and lets his shoulders drop. He begins working again, thankful he’s saved for even a few hours from Hugo’s anger, when a sneaker suddenly comes flying through the air crashing against the desk. Rhys jumps, looking at the direction of the throw.

"Hay Rhys, change the track, would you? Last thing you want is for your prime clientele to bounce!" 

It's Gaige, yelling her demand from the plush chairs. She looks pleased with herself when the surrounding girls giggle. It's fine for _Gaige_ because she lives with her Godfather and his boyfriend, and they trust her to make her own way to rehearsals. Anyone else would be scolded by their guardian, but not Gaige.

Rhys rolls his eyes and starts to busy himself again with his work. It’s not long though before Gaige jumps over the back of the seats and throws herself up on the counter. A few mothers with the team watch in horror, displeased by her behaviour clearly, but no one in their right mind is going to express negativity toward her. Why?...

Well, some would think it’s the size of her Godfather, Brick, but the actual fear stems from her loyal rottweiler, Death-Trap. After one too many exaggerated stories she shared with her friends, gossip got out and now all the women are afraid of the stability of _Gaige’s_ temper and her dog’s.

Rhys, though, knows her reputation is just hearsay. He’s seen that same dog play fight with Gaige’s adoptive sister, Tina, and be pinned down by the 5 year old with little to no fight. Death-Trap is as lethal as a stuffed bear.

Gaige crosses her legs and bears the biggest grin she can to sweeten the deal. It’s a hard sell, could squeeze the hearts of grandparents or her own family to give her her way, but Rhys is a tough negotiator. He stands there staring at her, arms crossed, with a stern glare not many dare to give the rambunctious teen. Eventually she huffs out in frustration.

“God, don’t have a cow, man!” She drops her posture and relaxes, becoming more like herself. Rhys drops the seriousness in turn and laughs under his breath. “C’mon, Rhys, can’t you play some acid house some time? Give some life into this place, get things going!”

“You’re here to bowl, Gaige, not party.” He reaches under his desk to pull out a clipboard and reads down the list on the front. “How do you even know that kind of music?” He looks up from under his brow. “Have you been sneaking out to nightclubs again?”

“Wha-what?!” She bursts out laughing, forcing the power from her throat. “That’s totally bogus! Why would you even think that?”

“Maybe because I _saw_ you at one three weeks ago and drove you home when you tried to fight a guy in the bathroom?”

“He was a creep!”

“And you were pretending you were 24, so no one was playing fair.”

Gaige groans loudly and flops back to lay flat on the counter; much to Rhys’ irritation. “Whatever. A few months back it would have been fine for me to go clubbing. Now the government goes and gets a stick up their ass and suddenly it’s wrong?”

Rhys doesn’t really care. Gaige is a rebellious kid, a matter like the law isn’t going to stop her from doing what she wants. She’s lucky enough to even be able to be a troublemaker - Rhys is almost jealous given his childhood was mostly spent tip-toeing around his father’s eerie presence. It's a rarity even now in adulthood that he can find time to have fun; Gaige should be celebrating the liberty she has access to to be wild and carefree.

He tries to work, looking over his clipboard to organise the job rota for the following month, but as if on queue his newest employee and Gaige’s adoptive cousin, Gortys, rolls in through the front door on her roller skates. Rhys looks up when he hears a high pitch squeal, and sees the young girl awkwardly hobbling along before finally falling, legs spread apart where the wheels of her skates betrayed her balance. It happens almost everyday she works, she forgets the juxtaposition of the streets smooth surface verses the venue's carpet will make her trip. When he meets his gaze, she giggles, and Gaige joins her with a boisterous laugh.

“Hi Rhyyyyyys!” She hikes herself back up and _attempts_ to skate toward the reception desk. Her body’s impact is enough to make Rhys wince for her. Gaige is less sympathetic, snickering loudly. Gortys just keeps smiling, though, and pulls her headphones down to hang around her neck. “Still practicing my stopping. It’s a _lot_ more difficult than the TV shows make it look!”

“Uh huh,” The slight amusement split any seriousness left on his face. Gortys pauses her walkman and leans on the counter, face in her hands, watching Rhys as he scribbles something down. “Gortys, are your shifts working okay so far around your studies?” He looks up at her under his brows. She’s beaming with usual cheerfulness, bouncing softly on the spot. 

“Oh yes, they do! They’re super! I’m so thankful to you and Mr Strongfork giving me this opportunity. I really appreciate it!” She chews her bottom lip and twirls the loose strand of hair. Rhys kept his face from reacting - it seems best she doesn’t know his dad’s disdain hiring her. She’s a hard worker, and a ray of sunshine customers always appreciate. His father’s backward political views shouldn’t matter with her work ethic, so Rhys ignored his disapproval.

“Okay great, I’ll give you the same for next month then?”

“Sure, that works for me!” Gortys notices the music playing overhead and gasps loudly, hobbling away using the toe stopper to walk, singing loudly as she goes. Rhys laughs to himself as he starts writing in her shifts. Gaige peers over to watch him scribble.

“Your handwriting is kinda girly, you know?”

Rhys squints at her and shrugs. “So?”

“I just wanted to let you know.”

“Well I appreciate the input, thank you. Now if you keep annoying me, I might just revoke any special privileges I’ve given you...like staying after hours to practice.”

He smirks when her eyes bulge slightly, genuinely worried he means it. Gaige and Rhys are an unlikely friendship - if they even qualified as such - but it's built on some kind of genuine respect for one another. In a morbid way, Rhys sees a familiar pain in her eyes, and whether it's the extra years he's got on her or the broken fragments of her smile littering every step she takes, he feels compelled to watch out for her. Unlike her cousin, Gaige is walking aimlessly through life for direction.

"What _ever_." She crosses her legs and leans back, looking out toward the front door. Then she gasps excitedly. "Oh, there's Angel!" She starts waving enthusiastically. Rhys looks up from scribbling on his clipboard, and feels his heart jump into his throat.

It's _Jack,_ walking through the front door with a hand on Angel's shoulder, and two familiar faces beside him. The cowgirl and the blonde man. He looks as powerful with confidence as he did before, wearing high waisted jeans and a loose satin shirt revealing once again an ungodly amount of chest hair. His eyes are covered by black shades until he lifts them up into his hair and looks around the room.

Rhys is gobsmacked when Jack makes eyes with him, strutting over with all the cavalier charm he remembers him exuding the previous night. Without the alcohol and flashing lights, Jack's less of a grand illusion to sedate Rhys' depression, and becomes a _reality_ . He carries a shark-like grin. It makes Rhys' stomach twist up in knots. Why is he here? _Why is he walking over to Rhys?!_

Gaige jumps off the counter just before Jack's there front and centre, running at Angel and greeting her excitedly. Angel's much more timid than her, but her sunny smile is as enthusiastic as Gaige is herself. Jack leans on the counter and looks over his shoulder, watching the two girls.

"They're _precious_ , ain't they?" Jack says, looking back at Rhys and jerking his eyebrow. He's smug, clearly, enthralled that Rhys is staring at him in shock horror and absolute confusion. 

"What are you doing here?" Rhys spits out through his teeth, trying not to sound as panicked as he absolutely is. 

"I'm here to watch my baby girl. She's been begging me to come watch her forever now, so here I am! Who'd have thought I'd see your pretty face so soon, aye?"

Rhys squints at him, suspicious, then his eyes go wide. " _Angel?!"_ Rhys immediately buries his head in his shoulders when he realises how loud he accidentally was. " _That's_ who your daughter is?!"

"Abso-freakin'-lutely. She's the apple of my eye." He peers over to see Angel joining her group, Gaige jumping at her side, and the other two associates of Jack's settling at the ice cream bar to watch over her. Jack waves at her before turning his attention back to Rhys. "You don't seem very happy to see me, kiddo."

Rhys is utterly astonished, if anything. With fleeting fantasies of Jack trickling in and out of his subconscious all day, he didn't expect the man himself to show up, and provide the best hangover cure simply by shocking him. Jack's as breathtaking as Rhys remembers too, it's hard to focus and not get lost admiring his array of features.

"Did you look me up after we met? How did you--"

"Slow your roll, Rhysie." Jack straightens up. He pulls a lollipop out of his slacks pocket and unwraps it, popping it in his cheek to suck on. Rhys is hit with the taste of strawberries again. His eyes watch as Jack hollows out his cheek sucking. "Look, this is a pleasant convenience. Take it as fate or, I don't know, whatever you believe in. Surely, given how eager you were to get railed, you'd be thrilled to see my handsome mug again--"

" _I mean--!"_ Rhys interrupts Jack and nervously looks around. Hugo is nowhere in sight. He exhales deeply and tries to compose himself. Jack keeps staring at him with an all knowing smug grin. "It was fun meeting you, sure, but I was wasted. _Anyone_ would have been fun."

Jack dramatically grips his chest and gasps. "Ouch! Harsh, kiddo, you're breaking my heart! You saying I wasn't special?" He pouts and bats his lashes. _Cute_ , Rhys thinks, rolling his eyes.

"I'm just saying you can't turn up to my place of work and start talking about... _you know_ …" there's a pause. Then Rhys whispers, " _sex,"_ much to Jack's amusement.

"Are you a freakin' nun?! Jeeze, you were the one eager to jump my dick yesterday." As Rhys groans out and walks to the end of the reception desk to organise the shoe rack, Jack follows and holds his hands up in truce. "Okay okay, sorry, I'll reign it in."

Rhys stills in position, sighing, gripping the wood of the shelf, and looks Jack up and down. The older man's annoying grin has softened, and he seems genuine. Rhys tries not to look too pleased as he turns back toward Jack, and rests his hand on the counter. Admittedly, it's exciting, seeing Jack again so soon. Reassuring too, that the thrill was mutual. 

"So coincidence?" Rhys smirks. Jack chuckles deeply, taking the stick of his sweet and pulling it from his mouth. He points it at Rhys and nods.

"Coincidence."

They stand there for a considerable amount of time just talking, absorbing information about one another. Jack tells Rhys he built the casino up from nothing after his father's untimely death, having inherited the business that was once just a speakeasy, thriving, to abandoned, to become what it is today. He tells tales of fatherhood without a partner, of his pride for Angel and how she has her mother's eyes. Rhys laps up every word he says like they're essential to survival. He watches Jack's cool demeanor pop with joy when he talks about Angel, or when he reveals the hard labour he's done with building his own business from the ground up. The relaxed shark-like grin lifts with a childish delight, as story after story falls from his mouth at rapid fire. Maybe he's aware of his own excitement, or maybe it's just been a while since someone new has listened to him…

Either way, Rhys likes it. He likes _him_.

Rhys in turn talks about his managerial position at the bowling alley, how he secretly thrives off the control he has, and hates not having complete power to do whatever he wants. He talks about working since he was a kid, shining shoes and waxing floors, and giving up school just to help his family. He didn't expect his tongue to be so loose, but he's able to withhold real vulnerabilities in his stories; dress them up in humour or fluff so Jack can't pity him. It's enjoyable to talk, to share and learn and feel respected. Even if it's a facade, Rhys doesn't feel stupid for falling for the performance. He likes the show - compared to everything in his life, it's a pleasant change of pace.

Eventually the fun has to end. After four strikes in a row, Gaige rushes over and demands a victory sundae for Angel, _on the house_. Before Rhys can object, Jack discreetly slips him a $20 bill and throws him a wink.

"Go on, big boss man. Let the girls celebrate."

Rhys rolls his eyes and accepts the payment, pretending it's in good faith as he waves them off for Vaughn's service. Gaige squeals and drags Angel away. The other girl is much more reserved, mouthing a thank you to Rhys, blowing a kiss to Jack, and even her excitable giggles are softer than Gaige's. She holds herself with a constant insecurity, hunched up, _unsure_. It's hard to believe she's the daughter of proud, crude Jack.

As the two men go to continue their conversation, they hear a loud, abrasive objection to the girl's fun. Jack looks over his shoulder and practically growls. Rhys _knows_ the voice before he looks, and cringes.

He walks out from the reception desk and holds a hand up to Jack to stay put, rushing over to the ice cream station. Hugo is scolding the two girls. Angel, with her eyes at her feet holding her arms nervously, while Gaige has her arms crossed and her expression exasperated. Rhys tugs on Hugo's arm and leads him aside, much to his irritation. He huffs and jerks back to pull away from Rhys.

"What are you doing encouraging them?! The session isn't over, we're about to start another round--"

"So call a break and let the girls eat! They're trying to enjoy themselves." Rhys puts his hands on his hips and shrugs. "It's supposed to be fun." Rhys isn't surprised when Hugo laughs, but he is taken aback. 

"I'm training these girls to _win_ . I'm not babysitting a bunch of losers, okay? If they want to be champions one day, _like me_ , then they need to have focus."

Usually Rhys would let Hugo droan on and on about how stupendously victorious he is, and how winning is the only thing that matters, but he's in no mood to subject himself to the torture. A dull ache still lingers from his hangover. Jack's attention calls to him like a siren call. He turns on the heels of his feet and waves off Hugo dismissively. He doesn't see the rage in his face, but he can feel it all the way back to his desk.

The luxury of peace isn't granted however, as Hugo storms over and slams his hands down on the reception counter. Rhys whips his head towards him, glaring, meeting his anger. Jack leans against the desk casually just sucking on his lollipop, spectating the two as if they're a tennis match.

"I don't know who you think you are acting like that--"

"I _think_ I'm the manager of this place." Rhys doesn't speak with much authority, his tone doesn't command respect, but rather it's _tired_. He's worn out and fed up, but that's just as effective to his point. Hugo doesn't have superiority, and his ego is so exhausting, Rhys doesn't care to put in effort with his annoyance. He places his prosthetic hand on his hip and pinches the bridge of his nose with the flesh one. He sighs heavily. "Can you tone down the peacocking routine for once and just...I don't know, be cool?!" Rhys throws his hand out exasperated and stares at Hugo questioningly.

Hugo's about to bark back when Jack intervenes, leaning further against the counter and smiling fondly at Rhys. He pulls the candy from his lips with an exaggerated, loud pop.

"Kittens got claws... _gentle claws_ , but claws nevertheless. You're getting better and better the more I learn about you, Rhysie." He signs his compliment off with a wink and throws the lollipop back in his mouth. Rhys feels his cheeks start to redden. He glanced between Jack's unbothered smug smirk and Hugo's deadly glare focused on the older man. 

Hugo leans against the desk, kicks his leg up against the other, and cocks his jaw. "And who are _you_?" He asks, demanding, eyes boring holes through Jack.

No response. Jack sucks on his candy and keeps his eyes on Rhys. He jerks his brow, as if to mock Hugo.

Hugo turns to Rhys impatiently. "Who is this, Rhys?"

Rhys sighs, but before he can answer, Jack jumps in. "Piece of advice, fella. Tone down the attitude and mind your business. Not everyone's as calm as long legs here." He gestures lazily at Rhys. The array of clunky, tacky rings on his hand practically shine off the white of his teeth. Rhys does his best not to blush. Hugo however seethes with rage. He leans in close, invading Jack's personal space, and cocks his jaw.

"Are you _threatening_ me?" He chuckles darkly. Jack keeps his eyes dead ahead. He tucks his clasped hands beneath his chin and clicks his tongue against the hard candy. Hugo continues. "Do you know who I am?" He's taken aback when Jack laughs, turning as he stands and squares up to Hugo. They're about the same height, and Hugo is broader, but Jack's stature speaks for itself. He's intimidating, in a mysterious, confident kind of way. Rhys swears he sees Hugo sweat for a second as he realises he's met his match, with someone who might follow through with their tough bravado.

"No, and unlike you, I don't give a flying fuck who you are." Jack snarls, showing just how sharp his teeth are, how bad his bite could be. "If I were you, I'd think very carefully about my next move. Clearly you haven't been told no too often...which is a shame, because" Jack scoffs, "the answer to ' _should I add more hair gel?_ ' is an astounding _no_. I mean for real, did you freakin' swim here, big shot?!" Jack follows his mocking with a boisterous laugh, forced for emphasis. He theatrically wipes away a tear from under his eye and winks at the enraged man. "Now scram. Get back to coaching, and a word of caution...be nice to these young ladies, would ya?"

Rhys can practically feel the steam shooting out of Hugo's ears. Jack turns his attention back to Rhys, his back to Hugo, but is surprised when Hugo’s hand slams down against the desk at his side. He’s growling like a wolf - like the alpha of a pack protecting its young. To Rhys it’s frightening, but all it seems to do is muster annoyance in Jack. His cocky smile falters as he clicks his neck.

“You got a death wish or something?” 

It’s the first time Rhys has heard Jack so serious. The low rumble of his voice isn’t like before. It’s tough, and jagged, and more New York than his twang has so far disguised. Jack has a look about him like he’s used to confrontation, and that he likes it too. He’s not even looking at Hugo. His eyes are forward, somewhere beyond Rhys, focused on the flashy decor behind him.

Hugo’s doing his best to seem confident. He lets out a loud, compensating chuckle, the tail end of which slips into a smooth sigh. “An old fogey like yourself should really learn their place, you know.” He slips his arm around Jack’s shoulder and gives him a less than playful shake. His other hand splays out like spider legs on the counter in front of them, lightly tapping the surface repeatedly. Jack stiffens in his hold, and his jaw tightens. Rhys notices out of the corner of his eye the two people Jack came in with to be looking over, before making their way toward the scene. Hugo chuckles. “You tried wooing a naive youngster, and you tried feeling like a big man against me, good for you...but games over, grandpa, time to concede and uh, admit defeat. I give you props though! I can only hope when I get to your age, I too will be chasing the good old days.” He playfully punches Jack’s chest, but with a deliberate and considerable amount of power behind the strike.

There’s an eerie silence as Hugo steps back, par his quiet “ _victorious_ ” laughter. Rhys is glancing between both men with wide eyes and terror, his cheeks burning from the humiliation of even _knowing_ someone like Hugo. The delusion is like a bad smell in the air. Jack looks like a man on the brink of murder, but before he can react, his accomplices approach. 

The blonde man grabs Hugo by his shoulder and shoves him backward against the reception. His face is sunny, nothing threatening about him, but his fist tightens to keep Hugo from moving. Hugo is about to spout more empty threats, but then his eyes meet the woman’s, and the colour in his face drains. Rhys peers round from the desk. He’s never seen Hugo look so shocked - not since they were young, dumb teenagers…

“Ni-Nisha?!” Hugo swallows down hard when she winks at him. “What are--”

“Is this man bothering you, sir?” Nisha (as Rhys has just discovered) interrupts. She has the same kind of confidence Jack has - able to waive off the egregious smugness Hugo parades around with, and see right through him. She looks intimidating, despite her soft features and thin frame. 

Rhys wonders for a second how Hugo knows her already, and better yet why she scares him so? 

Jack straightens up and looks at Hugo, eyes burning through him under his heavy brows. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks and huffs out a disgusted scoff. “Bother isn’t strong enough of a word, Nish. And to think, I’ve been easy going on him about the money he owes me.”

Both Rhys and Hugo look at Jack in utter shock. The word “Money?!” splutters out of Hugo’s mouth before he even realises. Jack chuckles darkly, and Rhys is ashamed to admit the vicious sound makes him shiver in the best way possible. It’s a sinful thought, but Jack making Hugo squirm is delicious in so many ways.

“Guess you were right, Zane. Maybe I’m going soft in my old age.” Jack clicks his tongue off the rough of his mouth and pulls his lollipop out, using it to point at Hugo as he leans in close. Zane ( _another mystery solved_ , Rhys thinks) digs his nails in deeper to make Hugo flinch slightly, leaning down at the point of contact, retreating with the pain. Jack snickers. “The worst part wasn’t the disrespect to twiggy over here,” he gestures to Rhys lazily, “or calling me old-- not even the debt you’re in to me, no no no...the _worst_ part was watching you shout at my pride and joy." He pops the candy back in his mouth and shakes his head. "That I can't let fly."

Of course Rhys is fully aware of what he means. As Hugo staggers through an array of words that presumably are questions and apologies, Angel makes her way over from the ice cream bar. She has her shoulders hunched forward, and steps carefully not putting weight on the balls of her feet, like she's afraid someone might scold her if she's too loud. She avoids Hugo's line of sight walking past him, and tugs of Jack's arm to gain his attention.

"Daddy, _please_ don't make a scene, you're embarrassing me…" Pleads Angel. She doesn't sound as timid as she looks. There's a level of irritation in her voice, and a frustration that flares up when Jack sighs at her words. 

Rhys has only known Angel as a quiet, submissive young woman, who bows her head at loud voices and avoids eye contact outside of Gaige. She can be giggly, and she smiles more than frowns, but those aren't the images that rise to the surface first when Rhys thinks about her. Everyone knew Angel came from importance, that she's rich or powerful or _both_...but no one saw her having a father like Jack.

Hugo sure didn't.

It's been way too long since he last spoke, so finally mustering up a semblance of courage, Rhys walks out from behind the desk and places himself in the middle of the scene. He's skittish, but he makes the daring decision to put himself between Hugo and Jack. He holds his hands up to surrender, and does his best to look tough, puffing put his chest, furrowing his brow slightly. He ignores the way his heart launches into his throat when Jack narrows his eyes on him, like a hawk.

"If it's so serious, I can get you the money." Rhys offers. Despite the ache of his chest as his heart trembles, his voice stays strong. "Just give me a date you need it by, and--"

"He should have given it to me _yesterday_ , kiddo, at the casino. Can you time travel?" Jack's playfulness is less endearing now. It's cold but fiery, and it stings to touch. The penny finally drops for Hugo as he curses under his breath - his gambling debt. Rhys' mouth flaps open like a fish, but he has nothing to say, prompting Jack to continue. "This isn't your fight. It's _his_. I appreciate the valiant act of chivalry, you're a stand up guy defending this knucklehead despite how he treats you, but really, you should stand down." Jack's enticing smile flips to a carnivorous growl and his voice drops. He's eyeing Rhys up like he's the prey.

Rhys' heart races violently as he maintains eye contact. He wants to back down, to run with his tail between his legs, but he holds his ground, stubbornly so, ignoring his fear. Jack's eyes squint more as he glares at Rhys.

"This is my property, and he's technically my staff, so uh, this," he waves his finger between them both, " _is_ my fight. If you want your money so bad, you should accept my offer."

The blonde man, Zane, bellows out laughing. All eyes turn to him.

"Kids got balls, Jacky, you gotta give it to him!" 

Rhys turns his attention back to Jack. The man is an enigma, that Rhys can get lost in for hours upon days upon weeks. He stares deep into the mismatched eyes of a vengeful man, sees the flames that linger deep in the pits of his pupils, and dares to poke the fire. Jack's mask, a soft, matte texture, accentuates his rage somehow, like battle armour. At the corners where his tear ducts are, are two silver metal droplets. They're shinier than the bolts, more modern and bold despite their size. Rhys can't help but let his eyes wander over the expanse of Jack's face, finding new miniscule features that add to his collection of questions already. 

He can feel Hugo's heaving against his neck. He wants to ignore it but it's so warm and clammy. He's seen Hugo humiliated numerous times, knows it like it's a friend he resents, and in this moment staring down the man he'd been having sexual fantasies about a mer few hours prior, it's hard not to throw him to the lion's den. Hugo isn't pleasant, he doesn't respect Rhys, so why does Rhys fight for him?

Is he trying to prove something to himself, that he's still got a fight brewing no matter how knocked down he gets?

Eventually Angel intervenes. She tugs Jack back slightly and steps into Rhys' space replacing Jack. "I'm sure daddy still wants his money, but if you would like to help - as a sign of...um, good faith, maybe you'd let me hold my 18th birthday here next month?" Her face lifts into a pleading smile, accompanied by fluttering eyelashes and clasped hands. "If-if you'd like to help, that is? Maybe-- I don't know, maybe that's a dumb idea--"

"Would that help make up for this oversized ape's outburst, babygirl?" Jack crosses his arms as he looks at his daughter. His demeanor softens, and when she nods, his face returns back to a pleasant, cocky grin. "Alright. How's that offer sound, kiddo? Plan my baby's big day here, sparing no expenses, and I won't ring the life out of your knucklehead boyfriend here."

Before Hugo can intervene and defend his fragile ego against that which strikes his insecurities worst, Rhys nods frantically and accepts the offer. 

"Sure, absolutely, no prob- _lamo_! And to fully cement that sign of good faith, I'll make sure he has your money ready on the day, too!" Rhys flashes a less than convincing grin but holds himself confidently, relieved when Jack chuckles heartedly. Jack nods behind him and on queue Hugo exhales. Rhys spins around to see Zane standing back after letting him go. Hugo looks like an injured puppy.

A loud crunch, as Jack cracks into the candy and pulls the bare stick from his mouth. He chews loudly and redirects his eyes to Hugo, scowling. "Now get out of my freakin’ sight, sleaze ball.” Jack barks at Hugo, no care for other occupants of the venue. Hugo jolts, and Jack laughs at him. They watch as he scampers over to his class at their lane, adjusting his clothes and trying to gather himself after shaking in his boots. Angel follows soon after, kissing Jack on the cheek and catching up with Gaige who is tittering with laughter (loving the sight of Hugo being scolded). Rhys too loves the sight, so much so he doesn’t even notice Jack’s hand slap down on his shoulder.

It’s a _large_ hand, dominating Rhys’ skinny shoulder. His knuckles are covered in an array of white scars, and against the light tan of his skin, it almost resembles reptile scales. His fingers, thick, _incredibly_ so, grip tight to softly pinch Rhys. His nails have been gnawed at, but they’re clean, and blunt. Rhys feels like he’s been staring at Jack’s hand for an eternity when he finally lifts his eyes to meet the others gaze. 

“Sorry about the ruckus, pumpkin. Hope this hasn’t tainted your opinion on me?” He walks around to face Rhys head on. His face is calm, collected, and back to the cheesy, charming way it was before. Rhys can’t help but feel breathless, like the tides have come at him full force, swept him up, and filled his lungs. Jack is like the ocean, and Rhys wonders, now that he’s seen a glimpse of the thrashing waves...is this just the calm before the storm?

Can Rhys handle another tsunami in his life?

Rhys shrugs, rolling his eyes with good humour and lightly pushing Jack’s hand off him. “It’s just business...right?” Nervous laughter falls from him. “Sorry he’s uh--”

“An asshole?”

“Yeah. How in debt to you is he?” He prepares himself for the worst. Holds his breath for a skyscraper worthy answer.

“Four grand.”

Oh.

Well that’s not so bad.

Rhys exhales the anxiety held in his chest. He doesn’t have a spare four grand to lend, and he probably can’t embezzle any more emergency funds from the business to help, but it’s a doable sum at least. Hugo must have savings, or favours he can pull. 

“Okay...and a birthday party...I can do that.”

Jack raises his brow and smirks. He looks behind him and motions his two forefingers at Zane. They’re answered with a small card slipped between, which he smoothly presents to Rhys to take. “Here’s my details. Call me when you’re ready to start planning.”

Rhys tentatively takes the card. “Oh you want--”

“Angel’s big day has to go _perfectly_. You’ll need my expert opinion. See you around, kiddo.”

Before Rhys can say anymore, Jack saunters away toward the half wall dissecting the lanes from the reception area. He leans over the top and watches as Angel prepares to take her next shot, lining up the ball with the pins. Zane and Nisha join either side of him. When Angel throws the ball and all the pins go flying at the impact, the three adults cheer tremendously, deliberately putting on a show to make people stare. Angel jumps excitedly, skipping over to Gaige and giggling as she waves at her little fan club. It’s a sweet sight. A lot of the mothers accompanying their daughters stay quiet no matter how well they do.

Rhys meets Hugo’s eyes for a second, and is surprised when he’s not sent daggers. They’re soft, almost apologetic, and despite everything he’s been put through, they make his heart ache. Rhys really despises Hugo at the best of times, but seeing him so dejected hits him hard, and he’s flooded with nostalgic sorrow, pining after the distant dream that _was_ Hugo Vasquez.

Yeah, Hugo really is the _worst_ hangover of Rhys’ life.

-

The pawn shop is a miserable place, in Rhys' opinion. He values the valiant effort Fiona puts into trying to spruce it up, and her charm and pizzazz does bring some life to the dying venue, but what is really needed is a miracle. 

Situated downtown off the main road, the store sits on its lonesome across from a discount boutique and Rhys' family's other business, the butcher's. Along the street, other small businesses run and struggle to keep up with brand stores that have a spotlight location on the strip of Paradise Nevada. Convenience stores, tailors, liquor shops, and even a niche sex shop Rhys is always too awkward to look at directly. The location is far from prime, and really Rhys has no idea why his father ever thought business would do well here, but his pessimism does little to help. 

He sits in the upstairs apartment Fiona calls home, with his legs thrown over the sofa arm and a bag of frozen peas on his head. The summer heat has kicked in, and the evening air is sticky and solid, with no room to breathe. Even with all the windows thrown open and three fans blowing freely, it's just hot. Rhys doesn't mind heat, but on days like this where he's been recovering from a hangover and Hugo's been a migraine all day, he could do without it. He hates how sweat beads roll down his neck, thick like soup, or how his clothes cling to him. The clammy heat makes it hard to even think, all his thoughts keep getting caught on warm frustrations.

Fiona walks round from the kitchen a few feet away. She's stripped down as much as she feels comfortable doing, wearing just a pair of men's boxers that are barely visible with the loose baseball jersey. Somehow her bob stays perky, no wet strands stuck to her sweat soaked skin. She slaps Rhys' legs to move him and plops herself down on the couch. She sips the ice cold water softly and reaches for papers on the coffee table in front of them.

"It looks like the shop earned more this month at least." She says as she looks over the array of numbers. Her tone could almost be misconstrued as optimism to someone who doesn't know her, but Rhys recognises it all too well. It's bitter relief, glad that they're not in the danger zone, but exhausted all the same.

Rhys lets out an unconvincing “good” alongside a sigh, flicking through the expense reports. He glances over to see Fiona frowning, shaking her head. “What?”

“Look, I know you hate doing these monthly reports--”

“I don’t _hate_ them…”

“ _\--But_ it’s what we have to do, so maybe suck it up and try to see the positives of this shit show we find ourselves the stars of?” She jerks one eyebrow and rolls her head back to look at the papers in her hand, leaning back into the seat. Some people might take her berating to be mean-spirited, but Rhys knows Fiona well enough. It’s that ‘Know It All Big Sister’ act. Annoying, but needed, and sometimes begrudgingly grateful to have. 

When Rhys’ father had the bright idea of investing in another business, it had been Fiona’s and Sasha’s foster dad, Felix, who agreed to go into business with him. The bowling alley at the time was doing relatively well, but he wasn’t making enough money to invest in something alone. Felix was the only friend he had with a big enough ego to think they could break the mould and be filthy rich off a few random businesses around town. 

The thing about them both though is they’ve exchanged working hard for being comfortable. They signed the deeds to own the pawn shop, but it’s Fiona’s responsibility, with Rhys’ supervision and help. Felix recognised the business method Rhys’ father had adopted, and threw his daughter into the working world first chance he got. Fiona thankfully _likes_ the business world. She thrives on counting cash, talking numbers, and figuring out strategies to keep things thriving. 

When they were in High School, she used to dream of owning her own boutique specifically for business women. She had sketchbooks filled with designs - beautiful, exquisite, vintage suits, with slim fitting high waisted flares, and an array of hats with extraordinary designs that would make her stand out from the crowd. She spent most classes drawing up new designs, reworking old sketches with a fresh twist, and she had a thriving passion to build and branch out of their town; she dreamt of going world wide one day. 

However, Felix gave her the job of managing the pawn shop. She said she wanted to go to college, and he said that was like declaring herself a slave to society. He wanted “ _better_ ” for her, and chained her behind a cash register to a terminal store. She left High School with top grades, after studying hard to get into a business school, teach her the ways, and landed in the delusional grandeur of a pair of old fool’s pipe dreams. Fiona had potential, she had so much hope…

Sometimes Rhys still catches her sketching. She’ll be slumped behind the counter lazily drawing on the back of an abandoned receipt. There’s been occasions at lunch she’ll draw on napkins too. She doesn’t collect them anymore, but when they’re left out in the open, abandoned, Rhys nabs them and keeps them safe. He likes remembering the bright eyed cocky Fiona with stars in her eyes, and the sketches help him keep that memory. Most of them he keeps tucked away in various books in his room. One day he hopes she’ll be able to pursue her dream, and he can give her back all the bright ideas she tossed out into the abyss.

She doesn’t admit the heartbreak that is giving up her dreams. Rhys struggles to hide his exhaustion, his face is run by his heart, but Fiona has a poker face. She’s never let Felix see her sweat, and Sasha has no idea how fragile she is inside. She holds herself up so no one else has to worry things are falling apart. Rhys knows it’s exhausting though. He knows, even though she’s never said, that she’s dying to scream at the world until her lungs shatter like glass, to cry a river that blows the dam built by everyone else, and to rest without being haunted by guilt. He can see it deep in her eyes, and he stays silent for her own sake. 

At some point in their evening, Fiona gets up and offers to make them a light dinner. They debate various options, but ultimately settle on sloppy joes. The heat is still substantial, but they’ve become used to it. When Rhys stands to stretch his limbs, placing his hands on his back to crack it, he’s surprised by the moist material of his sweat soaked shirt. He grimaces, then walks around the coffee table and slips to peer into the bedroom nearby. The apartment is almost uncomfortably quaint - it would be for someone as lanky and clumsy as Rhys - but Fiona finds solace in the tight squeeze. She hangs fairy lights on the walls and sticks polaroid pictures at random intervals on the wallpaper. There’s a few from High School. One in particular that catches Rhys’ attention is him and Fiona at 16, wearing varsity jackets they stole from lost property. Rhys has longer hair, curling around his shoulders, and Fiona’s is in a ponytail. It feels like a lifetime ago; it’s only just a decade. 

“So Sasha told me you had some drama today at work?” 

Rhys’ head whips round to look at her. She’s looking at him under her brows, a devious smirk lifting her eyes mischievously. Rhys rolls his eyes and falls back to lean on the doorframe.

“I didn’t think Sasha was around to see what happened. Was she slacking from her job?” he quips, crossing his arms and scoffing when she mockingly laughs. She moves something on the counter, it’s not in Rhys’ vision to tell what. 

“From the sounds of it, it seems like everyone in town could have heard it.” She claps her hands together and holds up two plates with their food. “When are you going to hurry up and dump Vasquez?” She says while handing him his meal. It’s about as appealing as a leftover quick fix sloppy joe can look. Rhys joins her back at their place on the couch.

“I don’t know, maybe when you admit you’re dating Tyreen Calypso--?”

“I am _not_ dating Tyreen, for the last time! Making out at the bar is hardly dating.”

Rhys snorts. “That may work on Sasha, but I’m not falling for it. Just admit it, you’re dating!”

Tyreen Calypso was a notorious flirt, to the tabloids thrill, and it was once hot topic gossip when a photo of her and Fiona leaving a club got leaked. It was devastating to her, being outed like that, but she was able to cover her back and spin it as a tale of sneaky business. Felix fell for it easily, and Fiona got to feel safe in her closet, snug and secure another day. Sasha and Rhys know Fiona is a lesbian, and they know her " _meeting"_ was less than formal.

Only Rhys knows there's been more than one hook-up.

Fiona swallows the bite she’d taken of her food and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “At most, we’re fucking. Tyreen isn’t the dating type, and neither am I. You however, need to let go of your High School fantasies and admit your sweetheart is a loser.”

Fiona knows Hugo well enough to confidently judge him - she had several classes with him, even attempted to tutor him in Math - and even in his glory days she never liked him. Rhys knows in a lot of ways she’s right about what she says, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge all the time he’s wasted hoping his teenage romance would become some kind of fairytale. He put all his hope into the one good thing he had, if he gives up waiting for the end of the rainbow he’ll be left with just the fall. He’s cynical, and pessimistic, but there’s a strong hope deep down rooting for the unlikely.

He sighs heavily and puts his plate on the coffee table, leaning on his knees. "You think if his dad never found us that one time...things would be different?"

Fiona stills, holding the sloppy Joe at her mouth as she speculates on the question. Then she hums. "Honestly, I have no idea." She takes a bite, and speaks through her chewing. "I always thought he was a knucklehead."

"That's because he insulted your hat once--"

"Well clearly he doesn't know fashion!" She swallows her food and sits the plate down. She leans forward and places a comforting hand on his knee. Rhys looks over and meets her eyes. They're tired, and worried. "Look. Sasha told me Hugo's in some kind of shit with whoever threatened him today. I don't know what's going on, and I don't care about him, but I do care about you. You're... _simple_ , Rhys. You jumped back into a relationship with your High School sweetheart because you thought it would be just like before, and it isn't. It's abusive, but honestly? It's maybe too much of a joy ride for you."

Rhys blinks rapidly as her words sink in. He pushes her hand away and laughs with offence. "What are you talking about? Hugo is hardly the epitome of excitement--"

"Isn't he? You know the shit he did while on tour, he thought he was a rockstar jet setting the country with his team! He's still trying to be _something_ , and I think he takes it out on you because you're just...here." she holds her hands up, exhaling. "It's not your fault, at all. I hate that guy, and one of these days I'm gonna sock him for treating you the way he does, but be real with yourself, Rhys! You don't want adventure, you want a happily ever after- the _same_ happily ever after you wanted when you were a teenager! You're not cut out to keep up with a guy like Hugo."

Rhys stares at her blankly, unable to form a coherent sentence that can fully encapsulate how he feels. He feels sick, repeating her words like a fog horn over and over in his head, really pulling them apart and digesting them. She looks so sincere. Her wide eyes and warm smile, they hide the malice that seems to lace everyone's words in Rhys' life. He knows she knows him better. He _knows_ she understands his resentment for being stuck in his life. He's not willfully boring…

He hasn't chosen to love Hugo.

He hates Hugo, but that's on the surface. That's the icing of the cake. The rich, tasty, crumbly cake that sweetens it all is his love, his desires to have the one person who made him euphoric at one point. The happiest point in his life was because of Hugo. He just wants that back, he's chasing _that_ adventure, because it's all he can do.

Now he's angry. He's confused, and frustrated, and sick of being looked down upon. Fiona gave up her dreams, she settled into her shackles the same way he has - how could she emphasise his lack of adventure over the rampant tornado that wrecks any comfort he had? Is she echoing the whispers of all his peers?

He stands up abruptly and storms to the front door. Fiona quickly stands too. "Wait, Rhys, where are you going?"

"I'm not in the mood to eat."

"What about the reports?"

"I'll pick them up tomorrow." He opens the door.

"Rhys, I'm sorry, I'm just being honest--"

"For someone who can't even admit they're hung up on an egotistical child star who's septum is about 2 lines away from collapsing, you sure do have a lot to say about my love life. If I'm so freakin' boring, Fiona, maybe it's because you're looking in a mirror!"

And before she can answer back, he slams the door, angrily stomping his way home. 


	4. Some Sin for Nuthin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets to work organising Angel's 18th birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long!!!! It's been an exhausting few months emotionally, let alone with dealing with quarentine and so on. Anyway, this is still my baby, I haven't abandoned it, and I'm gonna do my best to update a lot quicker and sooner (fingers crossed).
> 
> Also! There are mentions of OTHER relationships the pair have and had - this chapter briefly mentions Moxxi and Jack having had a fling, as well as starts to look at Jack and Nisha's dynamic. I know sometimes people hate those kind of things in fics, interwoven relationships even when just vaguly mentioned, so this is your warning - Jack was, and to some degree still is, a slut. I won't tag every relationship bc they're not significant enough to be tagged.
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy!!!!!!!!!

Jack has had a nasty habit of biting his fingernails since he was a child. Usually it’s a sign he’s thinking too much, or it’s some sixth sense his body has to alert him danger is on the horizon. His mother used to smack him on the hand with the hot end of her teaspoon whenever she caught him. It didn’t deter him from continuing well into his mid 40s. 

Currently he’s sat in the back of his Cadillac limousine, Angel beside him, filing her nails, tilting her head this way and that. As he works on biting his thumb’s nail down to a nub, he watches his daughter, and her pursuit in perfecting her beauty down to its last detail. Her nails are a light pink, unnatural, but not gaudy, just shinny enough to catch his eye and make him notice she cares about herself. She seems content sharpening her claws, mindlessly smacking her lips as she chews gum and blows bubbles every couple of seconds. The sound is irritating, but there’s music playing to counterbalance the pop, the slick clicks of her mouth, and the soft scrapping of her filing. He can tune her out if he wants to, if he  _ needs _ to. 

Jack is nervous a lot lately. He thinks it’s because of Angel, because she’s soon to be a  _ woman _ , and can fight for her independence more. What happened to the days they sat in the garden together, collecting daisies and making flower crowns? Her pudgy little fingers accidentally poking him in the eye, and how she’d flee the scene tittering after the “tickle monster” would attack her, her little legs taking her at a snail’s pace even though she thought she was going as fast as lightning. He’d never admit outloud to those sentimental thoughts, but he does thrive on the high of nostalgia, remembering how small she was, how he could carry her with one arm while she slept over his shoulder. Now she’s tall, and mature, and edging the point of no return that is adulthood. 

The last few years have been a battle. Their house has been a warzone too many times, he’s lost count. What was once a purely loving relationship has turned sour. It’s obvious why, and neither of them play dumb to the ghost haunting their fights - in fact it’s Angel’s best defence, knocking Jack down, making him bleed where it hurts the absolute most. It’s Vicky. Jack’s wife, Angel’s mom. It’s her  _ death _ , and how her absence has left them both wounded unable to heal. It happened so fast, they didn’t have time to prepare, and now they take it out on each other. Jack became protective, overbearingly, and Angel became rebellious, stupidly courageous. She’s almost 18 now, and Jack can feel the hands of time tightening their grip around his neck with every passing day, waiting to snap his fragile bones. 

“Daddy, I can feel you staring.”

Jack jerks his head suddenly as he snaps out of his daydream, looking at her, perplexed. She has a smug grin lifting her cheeks. Her eyes stay glued to her fingers as she continues to file her nails. 

“I wasn't staring,” He pulls his thumb away from his mouth finally, pushes himself to sit up straight, gripping the leather of the upholstery tight, and clears his throat. His eyes fall down her body, landing on the bare skin of her crossed thighs. Her legs are as pale as milk bottles, he thinks, then frowns. “That skirt is too small.” His voice is low and disapproving, but all it does is make her snort out a snarky laugh. 

“You bought it for me.” Her hands fall in her lap, lazily tugging at the leather before she unfolds her legs to cross them the other way. She blows a bubble, lets it grow to the tip of her nose, then pops messily. She fishes the gum back with her tongue before rolling her head on her shoulders to look at Jack. “Why buy it for me if I’m not allowed to wear it?” The corners of her lips tug mischievously as his face tightens in annoyance. 

“I figured it to be more of an around the house outfit.”

“A leather mini skirt? You thought buying your 17 year old daughter a leather mini skirt was something purely to wear lounging around in the house?” She scoffs and picks up her nail file again. “That’s kinda pervy, daddy--”

“Don’t take it there, Angel, you know what I meant!” He cuts her off angrily, ignoring how she laughs at his expense. He shuffles in his seat and turns to look out the window. 

“Don’t be a drag, daddy, I was only teasing you.” She tucks the nail file behind her ear on the side her hair is shaved. Recently she's become addicted to back combing, so while one side is bare with just the stubby remains of a fresh shave, the other juts out wildly, erratic and untamed, detailing the woes of a lost battle with her hairbrush. The way she presents herself is her own, Jack's never tried to control her there, beside some healthy fatherly concern for her innocence and virtue. He always figured, if she could be whoever she wants, visually, maybe she'll resent him less for the short leash. 

A plan that has good and bad days, depending on her level of vanity at the time. 

Jack enjoys the drive to Paradise Nevada. He has an impromptu appointment to see Rhys and begin the preparations for planning Angel’s 18th birthday party. After Rhys’ initial suggestion, Jack had checked over and over again with Angel to see if she really wanted to celebrate in a run of the mill bowling alley, and it seemed she was dead set on the idea. Far be it from Jack to question her taste, but it certainly has its advantages for Jack. Looking out the window, admiring the sun stroked desert miles wide, he thinks about Rhys’ admirable persistence to be  _ strength _ . Hugo Vasquez is just another sleazeball looking for relevancy, but Rhys protects him, knowing the odds aren't in his favour. He lifelessly runs a business forced upon him with the utmost care possible. Honestly, Jack respects him…

Kind of.

Jack would hate to admit it out loud but he's somewhat excited to see Rhys again. He's easy to make squirm, and by any sane man's standard, pretty on the eyes. Jack’s so used to being around broad, rugged, villainous criminals with as much charm as his mastiff’s drool, someone like Rhys is a breath of fresh air. When he’d called to arrange their next meeting, Jack had been in the midst of cleaning blood off his hands after cutting a man’s tongue out of his mouth; something he would bet his whole casino on that Rhys has never had to deal with. Hearing his voice, making plans to meet again face to face, it made Jack’s chest fill with butterflies. He figured he’d forgotten that feeling. He thought he'd never feel it again.

Jack can’t let himself get too invested in the younger man, however. The shameless flirting is innocent enough, wrapped up in devious intentions, but he knows he has to curb the thrills that come with it all if he’s to get the job done. It's only been a short amount of time after all, and he's sure his excitement is just because there's a secret chase - a morbid fascination with an enriching payoff. It can’t possibly be anything real. 

Rhys is all part of a plan. He doesn’t realise this, at all, but Jack’s got him right where he wants him. He’s a pawn to Jack, just another piece to build up his empire. If he gets lucky during the process, he can call it a business expense. __

They park up right outside the business. Jack fixes his tie and motions for Angel to put her nail file away. She rolls her eyes. Wilhelm opens the door for Jack to get out of the car, then goes round to do the same for Angel. They look expensive, and important. Jack walks onto the curb they’re parked on and looks at the bowling alley. He tosses his suit jacket out of the way behind him and buries his hands in his high waisted pants. 

He looks up at the bowling alley’s front sign. Large neon letters buzz, ‘ _ The Lucky Striker _ ’. Cute. Catchy. Does what it has to to lure people in, let them know the vibe. Jack remembers when Angel first told him she wanted to do something fun to meet people, and he had his men look into something innocent and unassuming, in a place just as innocent and unassuming. He’d been mildly hungover that day. Probably why he agreed to the proposition so easily. 

“Wilhelm, you stay in the car.” Jack orders, walking on, not looking at the broad henchman as he addresses him. Angel follows his steps in unison. 

“You sure, boss?” The man’s voice is gruff, like bark on a tree snapping. Jack gestures back lazily with a nondescript wave. 

“Don’t worry, big fella...this kid’s easy pickings, he won’t cause any fuss.” As Jack grabs the handle for the front door, he pauses and looks back. Wilhelm is stood by the limousine, perfectly straight like there’s a ruler down his back. He’s like a brick wall. Jack scoffs. “Go get a happy meal or something, treat yourself! And give Nish a call, make sure she’s ready for tonight.” He flings open the door and struts inside.

The place is closed for the day. It’s why Rhys wanted to do it today, so he wouldn’t have anything interrupting him.  _ “You deserve my undivided attention, sir” _ was what Rhys had actually said, much to Jack’s pleasure. Angel’s strappy heels click with every step she takes and echo quietly through the place. It’s bright like always, welcoming and warm, but the mute surroundings feel eerie. They wander toward the reception desk, and peer over. 

“Daddy,” Angel tugs on the elbow of Jack’s suit jacket and points toward a man waxing one of the distant lanes. Rhys, in all his long limbed glory. The corners of Jack’s lips curl. 

Rhys doesn’t see them as they approach. His back is to them, with his overheads on blasting away. His tape player is hooked to his shorts. The way he moves, it's as if he has tingles festering in his hands and knew he had to act before they crept further up his arms or made it down his legs. He’s lithe, in every sense of the word, and watching how he moves he's as graceful as water. He dances with the metal bar of the waxing machine, shimmying and gyrating with what could be described as a lawn mower, completely oblivious to the world around him. Until…

“Excuse me,” Jack steps into his space and taps him on the shoulder. Rhys lets out an embarrassingly high pitched squeal, spinning around and whacking his headphones off. They dangle at his side. Rhys braces himself, holding his chest as he breathes deeply and tries to dismiss his embarrassment with a hearty laugh. Jack’s face is smug with jovial pleasure. 

Angel at least tries to stifle her laughter. 

“Guess that will teach me a lesson for having my music too loud,” He hurriedly pulls the headphones up by the wire and hooks them around his neck, pausing his music, too. He groans; the humiliation palpable. “Sorry…”

“Always showing off your pipes, aye kiddo?” Jack winks playfully. “Don’t get your panties in a twist about it, it’s no biggie. Me and Angel had a long drive so we’d appreciate some well-mannered hospitality if you don’t mind…” He pulls one hand out of his pocket and clicks at Angel. “Diet coke, princess?” 

“If you’ve got it!” She replies, directing her response at Rhys with a kind, nervous smile. Jack nods.

“One diet coke, and a Malibu and coke.” Jack starts taking off his suit jacket, then pauses, one arm out, the other sleeved. “You serve alcohol here, right?” His stare is intense. Rhys blinks rapidly, stuttering. 

“Uh, I’m pretty sure we’ve got some behind the ice cream station--” He’s abruptly cut off when the heavy cotton of Jack’s suit jacket smacks him in the face. He catches it, flabbergasted, and scampers after Jack as he starts to walk toward the reception desk.

Jack hikes himself up to sit on the desk's countertop, crossing his legs. Angel leans on the edge beside him. “So hot shot, what big ideas have you been cooking up for my baby girl's big day?" He leans back and watches Rhys jump to action, throwing his suit jacket over the counter and fumbling to rush behind the counter, preparing their drinks. Jack watches his scuffling fondly.

"Well I figured just...we invite people, put up some decorations...do-do I need much more?” Rhys sounds nervous, walking out and handing Angel and Jack their respective drinks. Jack takes his glass with a mocking scoff, shaking his head. Angel, on the other hand, doesn’t look remotely offended. Rhys returns his gaze to Jack worryingly, racking his brain for something smart. Jack loves how blank his expression goes in his nerves.

Angel interrupts, taking Rhys' hand and squeezing it comfortingly in her own. "My dad's just trying to make you sweat. It makes him feel important when others are nervous around him."

"Angel, wha--"

Angel whips round and aggressively shushes him. He backs up, shocked, and grumbles under his breath in annoyance.

"This  _ is  _ my 18th birthday though…it  _ has  _ to be special. Don't you remember how excited you were to turn 18?" She lets go of his hand and twirls on the spot, elated by her own wandering fantasies of what turning 18 means, looking through rose coloured glasses. She rambles about her ideal version of adulthood, the perfect way to welcome in the festivities, and Jack looks away for a second to watch Rhys. 

The awkward smile that tries a little too hard to be convincing, pushing the lines in his cheeks to breaking point. The creases by his eyes, cracking, shattering his pretty features and revealing the hopelessness sewn into his flesh. Rhys listens to Angel, takes in her jovial spirit, but Jack can see it: he can't relate.

"Are the arcade machines, like, nailed to the ground? Same with the tables and chairs?" Angel rummages through Jack's suit jacket, and fishes out a bubblegum flavoured lollipop. She unwraps the sweet and wanders toward the machines, a thoughtful expression the other two men can't see.

"Uh no, they're not. Could move almost anything on this level, besides like," he gestures to the reception counter Jack's sat on. "The reception and bar. Uh, why?"

Angel turns quickly on the balls of her feet and looks at the two men. She's practically bouncing with excitement, but composes herself with a devious grin. 

"I want to turn the bowling alley into a scene from Grease!"

Jack stares at her cluelessly, but Rhys splutters up in shock.

"That sounds like... _ a lot _ ." Rhys laughs under his breath, glancing at Jack nervously before focusing back on Angel. He plays with his hands, keeping himself composed best he can, but it's clear the wheels in his head are about to come loose and bust. "I mean...How would that work?"

Angel rolls her eyes and scoffs. "Weren't you  _ alive _ during the 50s?"

Rhys frowns. "Barely…"

"Whatever, watch the movie, and take notes. It's, like,  _ really  _ good." She crosses her arms and walks past him to stand in front of Jack. "It was the first movie you took me to after mom died, remember?”

The penny drops. Jack’s eyes go wide and he stares through her as the flood of sorrow engulfs him like a tsunami wave. He doesn’t recall much about the film - in fact, if he thinks hard enough, he’s pretty sure he hated it - but he remembers Angel smiling. After weeks of tears, watching her drag herself from her bed to the kitchen for food, returning shortly after to collapse in her sheets, he decided to take her out. He needed to see her happy again, for his  _ own _ sanity. No amount of money or power could bring Vicky back, but maybe he could at least make a start stitching up the tears in his daughter's heart.

Too much singing, too much dancing, and an awful lot of sexual references he had not been aware of, but she was smiling. She was singing show tunes all night long.

"Not sure I remember the details of the film, princess, but if you tell Rhysie here the details, I'm  _ sure _ he'll figure out what to do."

Before Rhys can object, Angel pounces on him excitedly, whittling off what her favourite scenes are, and the quintessential things needed to pull off her vision. 

Jack decides to let him suffer for a while. He pushes himself off the counter and starts wandering towards the lounge area with the arcade machines. They're older machines, bought in the early 70s when they became revolutionary. He looks at the chipped paint spelling out the game:  _ Demolition Derby _ . He remembers Tim taking him and Angel to the arcade place where he lived when it first opened. He held Angel up to the machine, letting her yank the joy sticks and smash buttons before they'd even inserted a quarter. She was mesmerised by the flashing lights. So was Jack, admittedly, but he played it cool to counter Tim's gleeful bewilderment. 

Sometimes it gets overwhelming even for the likes of Jack, watching the world evolve faster and faster everyday. He always lived in the fast lane, never being given a choice, but there wasn't an option to take things slow back then. His father had orders, demands, and Jack was expected to adapt and act without fail every time, no complaints or excuses. Now when things evolve, he can take a breath, decide himself how he feels about it. 

He feels a telepathic kinship with Rhys. Jack knows all too well what a father's cruel dictatorship can do to the soul, and he can see the final straws withering away behind his eyes. He's got more spirit then Jack did. Jack broke at 20. Rhys is still finding the light at the end of the tunnel and relying on hope his feet will make it. He's a lot of things. The boy who sings obnoxiously at a crowded bar, surrounded by strippers, downing whisky like it’s the end of the world. The boy who kisses a practical stranger with all his heart and soul, promising a forever he doesn’t even realise is waiting. The boy who puts himself between the wrath of Jack and the punching bag that is his shit-stain boyfriend. Rhys is something special, Jack can feel it.

Sure, he happens to be the lover boy to a weasel in his debt, but that’s neither here nor there. What truly matters is the dirty rotting secrets of his father--  _ both  _ their fathers. He wonders if Rhys has any idea of that? Probably not; if Jack didn't know all these decades, there's no way someone still under their father's spell could know. 

He spins around on the heels of his feet and struts toward Angel and Rhys, digging his hands in his pockets. Rhys promptly looks to Jack and weakly smiles, like he's been deprived of Jack's company for centuries and not  _ minutes _ . 

"I do hope your old man doesn't mind you going to all this trouble. It's no problem for me to throw Angel's party at the casino and just send some men after Vasquez, you don't need--"

"No!" Rhys cuts him off, immediately pulling his hands back and turning red. Jack finds it cute how flustered Rhys gets at such small things. Rhys scratches the back of his head, needing to distract his hands. "No I...I know he made a bad first impression, but Hugo isn't a bad guy really, deep down. He's just…" Rhys sighs. He's still smiling, but weakly. "No one knows him like I do."

Both Jack and Angel share a dubious look, clearly in agreement they don't believe Hugo is anything other than bad. It's not that Rhys is lying, he's just blind to the villain everyone else sees. 

Jack decides he wants some alone time with Rhys. He leaves Angel with a bunch of quarters for the arcade machines, and leads himself and Rhys downstairs to the office. 

The office walls are a sickly mold green, with chips in the paint and a few minor cracks connecting to the ceiling. Against the opposite wall to the stairs is a mahogany desk, with various things cluttering the space: a discoloured yellow cord telephone; an A4 leather notebook lying open; a stack of papers sitting under a bowling trophy; two paper cups from the coffee shop across the street; scattered pens, most with absurd fluffy decorations at the end or novelty animals on springs. Tucked into the desk is an old, tattered swivel chair, and leaning on the wall beside is a fold up metal chair. A bookshelf, bursting with books against the wall, and filing cabinets struggling to close beside the bookshelf, and another set underneath the staircase. More stacks of paper in various spots on the floor, one pile under a paperweight shaped to look like a Saturday morning kids cartoon character. It's mundane; not that Jack was expecting anything spectacular. 

Jack watches as Rhys fumbles with the fold out chair. "You can take the good one. Hardly fair to make you sit in this," he laughs, the chair unfolding with a loud clatter on cue. Jack sits down as told and crosses his legs, patting the arms and spinning to look around the room, before landing back on Rhys when he's finally settled and seated. 

Jack can't be bothered being courteous to social standards, already impatient with the barrage of curious wonders circling his mind. He asks, "What's so special about Hugo then, princess?", and brings his fingers up to his face, propped under his chin with his index finger toying his bottom lip. Rhys' eyes bulge.

"Oh-- uh, that's…we should probably focus on Angel's party, right?" He practically begs, but it falls on deaf ears. Jack snorts out a soft laugh.

"I'm just curious. What is it, is he well endowed, you know," Jack whistles, jerking his brow, "down there?"

"Wha-- no! I-I mean, it's big-- or, uh, it's perfectly fine, but thats--" Rhys grunts. He pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales calmingly. "It's not about the sex."

"It's not? Well then I'm disappointed in you, kiddo," Jack uncrosses his legs to lean forward on his knees. "That's the only reason I could excuse you sticking up for that freakin' moron."

"Relationships are about more than just sex," Rhys quips, redirecting his attention to take his leather notebook into his lap. He picks up a pen and holds the nib to the paper. "So I'm thinking we could rent some--"

"So you're serious, you and Vasq-ass?" Jack's grin widens when Rhys looks up at him, annoyed.

"Why does it matter?"

"I was wondering if I could take you on a date."

"A  _ date _ ?!" Rhys lets out a loud, theatrical laugh, and shakes his head. "No, not a good idea."

"Why not? I can assure you this handsome mug is just the beginning of how awesome I am. I've got money, power, and you'll be happy to know a big dick too--"

" _ Jesus _ , Jack, no." Rhys' eyes narrow in on him furiously, but his cheeks slowly taint a sweet summer sunset shade of pink, filling his features. "Look, I have a boyfriend, end of discussion."

Jack doesn't appreciate Rhys' stern tone. He squints, takes a moment to restrain the violent instincts that course his veins. "So why did you kiss me if you're so committed to your shitty relationship?" He asks, his words coated in venom. Rhys shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He thinks, clearly debating telling Jack the truth or bending the narrative to fit his commitment. 

"Because I was depressed and you were conveniently there at the right time, okay? That's it."

Jack knows he's lying, but he doesn't want to press him much further. If he isn't careful, he'll lose a convenient contact, and mess up his plans (at least the clean, ideal version of the plan). He holds his hands up and accepts defeat. Rhys looks at him, exasperated, and nods gratefully. Jack likes this kid, he admires his spirit and energy. 

They talk at length about how to capture Angel's dream in one night. Rhys clearly has a small budget, he's embezzling funds best he can and moving numbers to make it seem like legitimate transactions rather than a forceful favour. Jack expects the absolute best for his baby girl, and while he could easily pay for the whole night, he likes watching Rhys sweat. He leans back in his seat and spreads his leg leisurely, taping his fingers on the desk. He sees Rhys' eyes flicker toward the movement for a moment, irritated, but intimidated. Then he’s scribbling again, pen ink spirals over the white, he works out the damage that’ll come from the event.

“I think I know someone that can spray paint some furniture to make everything look authentic.” Rhys picks up the office landline and starts punching numbers in. “They live in a junkyard, making stuff out of...other stuff, you know?

Jack frowns, leaning forward to invade Rhys’ space. He forcefully pushes the switchhook and glares at the younger man as the faint drilling of dead noise rings through the speaker. “A junkyard?”

“Um...yes?”

“You think the light of my life, the apple of my eye, my precious baby girl Angel deserves a party full of other people’s old garbage? Is that how it is, kid?”

“What, no! No no no, of course not!” Rhys panics, gripping the phone in his hand as he holds his hands up in surrender, desperately trying to reassure Jack. “No, they’re a professional!”

“A professional...what? Garbageman?”

“No, artist!” Jack laughs at Rhys’ response, prompting him to go on. “They’ve made things for me before! You see the neon light above the bar upstairs? They made that out of scrap they found! And my buddy August’s got a dive bar downtown, and they polished up a bunch of the bar stools and supplied decoration!” Rhys calms down a little - probably where Jack’s aggression subsides as he listens. He smiles softly. “They’re legit, I promise.”

Jack chews it over. His life is surrounded in luxuries, he doesn’t do anything less than the best. “Junkyard” is a dirty word in his world, and “ _ artist _ ” is even worse -  _ but _ Rhys has an honest face. It’s the ever present doleful light in his iris’, obvious but not blinding, lighting up his features without making him angelically white. The soft features, like they’ve been sculpted by Gods, perfectly positioned, and moulded against calloused fingerprints, with the eye of the beholder sharing their vision through hypnotics. He’s got a trustworthy look, in his eyes, in his smile, even in the nervous stammer of his voice. 

So Jack relaxes. He falls back into the chair and waves his hand for Rhys to continue, shoving the other hand in the pocket of his slacks. Rhys immediately starts redialing the number. It doesn’t take long for whoever on the other end to pick up. Jack listens lazily, looking around the barren office again. 

When he was a kid, he remembers the tierless hours his father spent in his home office, usually screaming down the end of his phone with a thick cigar in his hand, and some broad lackey stood like a brick wall at his side. There were times he’d walk past the oakwood doors and catch a glimpse into his world, full of mystery and danger, and he’d wonder if this was his happiness. The office was well furnished. The grand, expensive mahogany desk, slick with polish, and golden flakes circling the wallpaper, haloing his father. He looked like the devil’s shadow. Jack still feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand just remembering the sight. The man is a nightmare, haunting him, just like he did in life. 

It’s something like an hour that goes by when Jack finally stands again. He stretches out his back and twists to crack his spine, sighing in relief when the noise follows. Rhys stands in turn, closing his notebook now littered in the messy scribblings of a busy plan. The two walk back up the stairs talking about the next steps. Angel is at one of the lanes, bowling a ball down and hitting every pin at the end. Rhys scowls quizzically.

“How did you…? That was turned off!” He walks with urgency, looking between the control panel and the screen above her lanes booth. She waits for her ball to return through the machine, smiling innocently. 

“It wasn’t hard to figure out. I didn’t touch anything else, just turned this lane on to practice.”

Rhys hums, still staring at the control panel like it might tell him something she hasn’t already. Eventually he steps back and shrugs. “Sure, that’s fine. Just...ask next time, please.”

Angel smiles wider, nodding. Her ball clatters through the machine and rolls onto the rack with the other shimmering balls. She puts her fingers into the designated holes and hoists the ball up to her chest, assuming her winning position to bowl. Rhys turns his attention back to Jack. He’s gone straight to grab his suit jacket, fishing in the pocket to get himself a sucker. They have been doing his smoking cravings a wonder, surprisingly. He waltzes back toward Rhys, unwrapping the sweet to pop it in his mouth. 

“You know you’re a smart kid,” Jack starts when they meet in the middle. Rhys’ pleasant expression twitches momentarily. Jack shrugs. “I’ve a feeling you don’t get told that too often?”

Rhys replies, “You don’t have to be very smart to run a bowling alley.” His self deprecating chuckle is a little stronger than he’d meant it to be. He tries to hide himself by crossing his arms, but Jack can see the self conscious hatred festering like a virus. It almost hurts to see; to  _ know  _ that such a level of self hatred actually exists.

“If that was true, more people would be doing it and not losing money...or, uh, more stubborn old bastards wouldn’t be making their genius kids do it for ‘em, am I right?” He elbows Rhys playfully. He pulls the lollipop from his lips and sighs. “I know business, kid, and I can assure you you’re doing an alright job.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Really?” Rhys sounds so delicate. It’s as if the approval is what he’s been waiting for his whole life, to save him from being plugged into life support. Jack can’t help but chuckle warmly.

“I don’t flatter many people, so when I do, it's God's honest truth. Didn’t you say you’re running two other businesses for your old man too?”

“Oh yeah,” Rhys groans. He walks over to the reception counter and leans against it. Jack does the same beside him. “They’re...a lost cause, if you ask me.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Why  _ wouldn’t _ I? If my dad was really the great businessman he thinks he is, he’d have thought about location and marketing. The bowling alley is good, you know, on a busy main road that leads straight to Las Vegas if you drive long enough, and the years have been good to the sport, everyone wants to be the next big star. It’s got backbone, relevancy...but a pawn shop located in the back roads of  _ God  _ knows where, and a butchers in competition with a better butchers and dairy goods store?” Rhys moans through an exhale and laughs, rolling his head on his shoulders to look at Jack in amusement. “Why did he think they’d work? Because, what, some big wig at a gambling match said it would? Yeah, that’s smart, dad.”

Jack’s ears perk up at that, along with a quizzical brow. “Big wig? He got advice from someone?” Jack moves to look more directly at Rhys, one hand on the desk, the other on his hip. 

Rhys shrugs. “He used to go to these underground parties, notorious for drugs and crime. He thought he was slick, but mom knew, and she thought she was slick when talking about it on the phone to my grandmother, but I always heard. Walls aren’t exactly that thick. Anyway, both businesses he invested in around the same time, completely out of the blue, and I heard him talking about it with Felix-- uh, the other partner to them. They were talking about some ‘ _ Boss’ _ paying them in cash to do some marketing. I can comfortably tell you, they wasted that pay out.” Rhys rolls his eyes and sighs, relaxing more. “I don’t know how they got away with it. Those parties had some real sleazy types. I can only imagine whoever they tangled in their bullshit got whacked themselves.”

Mr Lawrence, Senior. That’s who it was, undoubtedly. And he hadn’t been “whacked” as Rhys so elegantly put it. Of course Jack isn’t about to share that truth out loud. He wants to know so much more, even if the tales are wrapped in what he already knows. Rhys can give him so much more than he realises; maybe he’s just a means to the truth, but his value exceeds the expectations Jack had set. 

Rhys suddenly snaps out of the gossiping trance he’d lost himself to. He laughs with embarrassment and pushes himself off the counter, fidgeting nervously, searching for something to busy himself. It bolts through his whole body. He grabs a ring of keys from behind the reception and jingles the keys. “Sorry, sometimes I ramble.”

“Not a problem. You’re more interesting to listen to than most, that’s for sure.” Jack winks, pleased with himself when Rhys blushes and tries to shy away from Jack seeing the overly enthusiastic smile spreading across his face. 

“I should get back to work, cleaning things up.”

“You kicking us out, doll face?”

“N-no! I mean, uh...kind of. I’m sorry, it’s nothing personal,” Rhys tries his best to laugh nonchalantly. “I’m sure I’ve taken up enough of your time as it is.”

Jack pushes himself off the counter and squares up to Rhys, so his face is in his. He lets the tension build, lingering on the sharp edges of his devious smirk, risking a puncture that might deflate the hot air he’s pumped into Rhys thus far. He likes his pretty features, more than he probably should. God, how he wishes he could throw Rhys over his own reception counter and show him what violent passion is. He wants to leave his delicate, dainty skin covered in juicy purple bruises and bite marks. 

The wonderful coincidence is too good to dismiss without taking another risk. Jack’s found something unexpectedly  _ fun, _ it’s titillating. Business as usual for him is debt collecting and whacking someone off, having secret lunches with the head of the police department and dealing drugs laced with more sugar than coke. Rhys is a breath of fresh air to his tired, tattered lungs, but the simplicity gives him a thrill like nothing has in a long time. 

“A lunch date.” He says unprompted. Rhys frowns curiously. Jack pulls the sucker from his mouth and points it in Rhys’ direction. “Let me take you on a lunch date.” He’s got a cheesy smile, and Rhys laughs, rolling his eyes.

“I really shouldn’t.” Rhys replies. Not good enough.

“Come on, you’ve gotta eat sometime! I’ll take you somewhere nice.”

“Jack.”

“Alright, somewhere mundane! Whatever’s your fancy, kiddo. Where do you and your lover boy like to go for dates?” Jack asks with a casual, flirty curiosity, but then Rhys is quiet. Jack’s expression fades from merry to a genuine concern. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

Rhys sighs heavily, shrugging. “Nothing, sorry. I’ll think about it, Jack, but it's really not a good idea. You should get going now though. I'll call you soon to check with party preparation, okay?”

In most cases Jack would persist. He’d go so far as to throw a tantrum, if it meant getting his way, but the way Rhys’ body dropped with a heavy melancholy, it stopped Jack in his tracks. He saw an icy coldness deep in Rhys’ eyes, the frost bite spreading and burning the vibrancy in his iris’. His instincts are screaming at him, but he stays calm and composed. They shake hands, saying their goodbyes, lingering for a second longer than humble acquaintances probably should. Angel hugs Rhys goodbye, reminding him how important it is to watch Grease A.S.A.P, as if his life depends on it, and Rhys laughs softly. He watches as they walk out the building, waving as they climb back into their limo, and Jack watches through the tinted glass as Rhys keeps his eyes glued to them the whole way out of sight, even if he can’t see Jack in return. 

“You like him, don’t you, daddy?” 

Angel’s question pulls Jack out of his trance. He turns to face her and sees her overtly smug expression. He hates it, regardless if it belongs to the single most important person in his life. He makes an exacerbated sound, similar to a sigh, and shakes his head.

“It’s business, baby. He’s just some schmuck that runs your little club.”

“A schmuck you were flirting with…”

“What would you know about flirting, hmm?”

“You like him though, admit it.”

“Why are you so adamant about whether I like him or not?”

Angel giggles. She’s positively giddy over the idea her questions are getting under his skin, guessing my the growing frown lines on his forehead. She crosses her legs over one another, her arms following suit across her chest.

"I just didn't think he was your type." She takes out her nail file from her jacket pocket, and as she’d been doing earlier, she goes back to mindless filing her nails. Jack rolls his eyes and settles into his seat more. 

"Wilhelm." He shouts, seeing the large man's cold eyes stare back at him through the rearview mirror. "Call Nines and tell her to look into someone called 'Felix'. No, I don't know a last name, but he should be an associate of my old man's."

"Is this linked to the same case she's working on?"

Jack nods, and Wilhelm looks away back toward the main road. Jack turns to stare out the tinted window with empty detachment from the world whizzing past. 

Despite his best efforts, he keeps thinking about Rhys.

-

Living in Las Vegas has forced Jack’s to become accustomed to heat, even in the late evening hours. Standing out in the open only a few hours after the summer’s sun was blazing high in the sky, she still sweats. Despite the dull breeze drifting in and out, his skin maintains the heat he’d caught earlier in the day. The sunshine has seeped into his bones, and it’s raging, reflecting and burning everyone.

He’s standing outside of an abandoned salvage yard, the limousine parked on the street corner. There’s not much life in this area, no houses or other businesses. The road ends with the yard, and to get there means driving down a maze of back alley streets that mostly home meth heads, so it’s unnervingly quiet. Still, he's here for unofficial business.

Angel's birthday present has to be  _ spectacular _ . There's no doubt about it, whatever the means, Jack is putting in every ounce of energy he has to give her the very best.

It's what his father used to do for him and Tim. He assumes it's what every parent in his position is meant to do. Growing up, between the awkward family dinners and quiet nights listening to screaming downstairs, Jack and Tim were given almost everything they ever wanted. If they wanted new clothes, a car, comic books - whatever, Jack's dad would get it for them at the drop of a hat. It used to numb the pain of his absence. 

When Angel was born, Jack remembers being terrified of messing things up. He'd been deep into taking up his father's position at that point, but looking at that tiny bundle of joy in his wife's arms made him rethink everything. He wondered if his father felt this way about him and Tim - if he'd considered giving up everything just for his kids. He wanted to smother Angel in love, surround her with the very best, because she deserved it just for existing. For a while, he wondered if buying her presents was a means of replacing his actual love. He'd chewed his wife's ear off with those concerns, wondering if he should call it quits and give up his family's business for good just to be wholeheartedly present in Angel's life. He'd come close to giving it all away…

Then his wife died.

Angel needed  _ things _ after that. Jack couldn't bring himself to be a fully fledged father. The best he could do was give her everything she'd ever desired, to numb the pain of  _ her  _ absence. 

He knows he's not the  _ best _ dad in the world, but he's done everything he can to be a decent dad in her life, present when she needs someone. He never got that kind of dedication as a kid, he had to take matters into his own hands, for himself and Tim. He wants to make Angel happy, that's it - that's the absolute most important job he'll ever have.

So between beating people senseless, collecting debts, and other senseless crimes he had too much fun operating, he works to make her birthday perfect. 

The yard is surrounded by tall chain link fencing with barbed wires to deter theft. The entrance has dusty track markings from tiered racks of scavenged tires and rims, and from where Jack’s standing he can see row after row of broken-down vehicles, their windows broken, hoods raised, bodies dented, and wires and hoses bleeding out of the engines. He can hear the faintest sound of conversation - which he knows is Nisha talking to the associates he’s come to do business with. Wilhelm is with her, most likely silent as he usually is, but eager nevertheless for possible carnage. Zane’s standing at the entrance, looking around the rubble and debris. He’d wandered off to light a cigarette, trying despite not being prompted to keep the smell away from Jack. 

It’s not working. He can smell the nicotine among the motor oil, and grease, and exhaust fumes. 

Jack leans back on the limo and sighs. From where he is, the moon glows directly above him, lathering at his available bare skin. The smugness that is sewn into his features feel frayed when he’s alone. He doesn’t have to hold up the act, he can just let himself be quiet, and at peace. The curtains have closed, the performance is over, and Jack has appeased the rowdy audience holding him up on a pedestal. 

There are moments where he wishes his life went differently. As far back as his childhood, when he didn't have an entourage of people depending on him. Sometimes his devious thrills wear him down, he wishes he could go back before things spiralled. Before he had to take over from his father in running a notorious gang of thugs and criminals, running around the country dealing with people bigger and wiser than him. Sometimes he wishes he could forget the pain he's earned, the mourning that's aged him, the anger that's possessed his humanity. He wishes he could just be a carefree kid again. Being a dangerous mob boss didn't leave him with much spare time to indulge in frivolous happiness.

The salvage yard is owned still, despite being abandoned. It used to belong to an associate of Jack's father, who passed it on to his son in his death. His son, "Mr Shank", mysteriously died a few years later with no recorded knowledge of the cause, and left the shamble of a "business" to his wife, Moxxi. She's who Jack deals with now - as well as her newest husband and her two kids. They’re a well-knit family, dedicated to scamming low lifes, fixing up decrepit cars, and building weapons. 

As far as being useful to Jack, Mr Shank was lucky to have picked himself a wife like Moxxi. Of course, Jack has his suspicions about the cause of Mr Shank’s death, but that just made Moxxi all the more intriguing. 

Jack turns his head sharply at the sound of Zane’s thick Irish accent, and sees him talking to Nisha. The pair look toward him and motion for him to come over. As they walk into the yard, Jack pulls out a lollipop from his slacks. Zane takes a long drag of his cigarette before offering the end to Nisha.

“How’s it been giving up?” Nisha asks on the tail end of blowing the smoke into the evening air above them. She sounds too giddy, like she enjoys the struggle of Jack giving up an addiction. No one else would get away with being so smug around him, but Zane and Nisha are as close to family as Angel and Tim are. Jack walks around to the illuminated business office located inside a trailer and stops at the step ladder before the door. He smiles mockingly and takes the bum end of the cigarette straight from Nisha’s lips, stomping it into the dirt under his shoe. She frowns. “What the fuck?”

“Am I walking into a bust or what?” Jack asks, the calmness of his tone deceptive to the lingering danger that always underlines his tone. 

Nisha exhales heavily and adjusts her jacket collar, looking at Zane, who’s stifling his own amusement. “It’s here, alright.”

“Good, I’m not in the mood to strangle anyone tonight.”

Zane scoffs. “That’s a change.” He says, laughing harder when Jack flips him off. 

He opens the trailer door and steps inside. It’s a stuffy office, nothing luxurious or glamorous about it, with Moxxi sitting behind the desk like butter wouldn’t melt. Her son, Scooter, is slumped against the wall, but promptly straightens up when his eyes meet Jack’s. He looks dirty, his clothes stained in motor oil, holes torn in the fabric, and cuts littering his skin where he’s been in one too many fights. He’s scrappy, for sure. What little Jack knows of him is that he does a lot of Moxxi’s dirty work. Moxxi herself is much cleaner, more presentable for an important meeting - if not  _ too _ overdressed, almost inappropriately so. Jack stands in the centre of the room staring down at Moxxi. Zane moves to his left, Nisha to his right, and Wilhelm who’d remained in the trailer covers the rear. For a moment it’s an impromptu stare off. 

Jack speaks up first. “Who’d you send to do the job then, Mox? Twiggy over here?” He gestures vaguely to Scooter. The young man sneers toward Jack. He likes to wind them up, see how much they can handle being degraded before they finally snap.

"Actually I sent a dear friend of mine. Lucky Zaford." Every syllable she over pronounces, letting the drawl on her accent seduce each word. She crosses her legs and leans back into her chair. Her nonchalance irritates Jack. "He's on his way to shake your hand now."

"Oh really?" Jack looks between his own crew, a cheesy, less than genuine grin on his face. “And uh, tell me, Mox...why do they call him Lucky?” As he asks, Moxxi hands him the polaroid shots her daughter had taken of the car. He looks down at them, and his smile drops dramatically. He can hear Moxxi’s sultry sing-songy voice telling him some boring story, something about almost getting his jaw blown off, but he tunes it out. Right now, all he can see are the crisp crinkled polaroids with motor oil smudges on the edges…

The photos of the  _ wrong car _ .

He turns abruptly to Nisha, teeth bared as he practically growls, and glares darkly at her while holding the polaroids up for her view. He’s taken back when she shrugs and smiles softly, holding her bottom lip between her teeth, grateful for the opportunity to see Jack angry. She wanted this, a fucked up job. Jack exhales heavily through his nose, taking the lollipop from his mouth and tossing it in the trash can beside her desk.

“When’s he getting here?” Jack abruptly interrupts Moxxi’s tangent. She looks at him surprised, but composes herself with ease, slowly standing from her seat. Jack can’t help his eyes as they drop the length of her minidress. That is, the abysmal amount of length, leaving little to the imagination. 

Moxxi is a tyrant of a woman in her own right, Jack knows this. If his heated summer affair with her didn’t give him the insight, her lax attitude around him sure did. Most people were appropriately intimidated by him and his entourage, but Moxxi clearly thinks she’ll overcome Jack, like he’s just another obstacle in her life to concur. She always dresses provocatively, her wardrobe filled with various flashy skin tight dresses, miniskirts, and see through shirts. They’re definitely out of her budget, but she needs the alluring presentation to conceive the hustle.

She's not an idiot. She would never actively invite Jack to a damn scrapyard if she  _ knew _ she'd failed him. The stakes are too high, she knows Jack's not a man to be messed around. This is important, this involves making  _ Angel  _ happy, which means messing up justifies a drastic punishment.

Moxxi crosses her arms and looks over at the clock in the wall. "He should be here in the next 10 minutes. You're eager?"

Jack chuckles. He walks forward, circling the desk like a shark finding prey, watching Moxxi sharply. She doesn't flinch, rather she lets her eyes fall down him and winks, blowing a kiss. It's a wind up, not an invitation, but its enough of a tell for Jack to know she really has no idea about the mess up. He stops at her side and snorts softly.

Then he moves in a flash. He grabs Scooter roughly and pins him to the nearest wall, slamming his face full force against the trailer. The composure he'd managed to hide beneath tears pathetically so, allowing the fully fledged force of his rage to burst forth and take control. There's a distinctive creak like snapping wood where he yanks Scooter's arm behind his back, and the young man squeals. Moxxi's cool, collected stance suddenly crumbles apart, and she tries to pull Jack off her son. She yells at him, cursing him out, losing all her composure, even when Wilhelm restraints her. She thrashes in his hold but it's futile.

Jack leans in so his mouth is mere inches from Scooter's ear. The burning anger raises a cruel, detestable smile with a sinister snarl edging itself. Scooter squirms beneath him, muttering angrily, and Jack delights in it. The added bonus is Moxxi screeching at him, so full of anger, her actual southern accent comes out like venom. A restricting, clammy tension fills the room fast, and moulds itself around everyone, leeching off the stress in their muscles.

"I'm guessing you don't want to die, huh kid?" Moxxi screams like a strangled cat at Jack's words, thrashing more in Wilhelm's hold. Scooter stills.

"H-hay man, I ain't looking to get on nobodies bad side, alright? My mamma's pal did what you wanted, so--" He suddenly yelps as Jack forces him harder against the wall, following through by pressing the barrel of his glock between Scooter's shoulder blades. Moxxi cries out desperately, the sheer panic for her son's safety washing away any contrived composure she had left. "Wo-woah, man, I-I-I uh, really don't want--"

"Listen, you freakin' hick. Unless you want to bleed out with a hole in your chest where your heart should be, I suggest you keep your mouth  _ shut _ ." Jack pushes the barrel against him harder, emphasising his point. Everything falls silent, even Moxxi, with the exception of her muffled sobs. The corners of Jack’s lips curl upward, and he exhales. “Good. Now, maybe I’m giving you too much credit, but I don’t think your family would deliberately try to screw me over, would you?” Scooter shakes his head frantically. “No. No of course not, because,” He chuckles darkly, “Even white trash like yourselves know the importance of keeping your organs internal, and not sprayed all over this cheap carpet. So,” He takes his gun away and turns Scooter to face him. The young man looks terrified. Jack rests his hand beside Scooter’s head and taps his chest comically so with the barrel of his gun, drawing a gasp from him. “Here’s my theory. Your  _ mamma  _ must’ve gone got herself screwed over by this here lucky fella, Zaford!”

Scooter’s in too much shock to even feel offended by Jack’s mocking southern accent. His eyes lift from the gun to his eyes, wide and hurt. “Screwed by Zaford?” He says under his breath. “What...are you saying Zaford slept with my mamma?”

Jack can’t help but laugh, looking over his shoulder at Moxxi who’s practically growling at him like a furious mother bear protecting her young. He dramatically wipes a tear with his gun. “You know what, Scoot? I wasn’t saying that, but it sure would make  _ a lot  _ of sense.”

“Don’t listen to him, baby!” Moxxi yells out, but before she can go on, Wilhelm puts one of his enormous hands over her mouth. She tries to scream when Scooter moves instinctively to protect her, only to be shoved back into place by Jack’s glock. 

“Well hold on, let’s use our brains! People don’t just do favours out of the kindness of their hearts, do they? And for a job of this size, exporting a car overseas that’s not ready to be shipped in the US...that’s not cheap. A lot of risks, breaking into a warehouse in a forign country and…” Jack snorts under his breath. He slips his gun back into his shoulder holster, and rests a hand on Scooter’s shoulder. It’s uneasy, and betraying of his intentions, but Scooter takes the bait like a starving man promised a hot meal. “I think ol’ Zaford asked your mamma for a different kind of payment, if you know what I mean? Aye champ? You know what I’m saying?”

Scooter’s eyes dart over to Moxxi. A warm pink blush creeps over her face, peeking under Wilhelm’s hand, and she breaks their stare. The anger is like lightning, Scooter turns back to Jack with a bloodlust fury.

“Sex, you mean sex?!”

Jack winks. “Bingo, Einstein! And not only that, but it looks like Zaford thought he could pull the wool over your eyes and bring back the  _ wrong car _ . Can you believe that, kid?” Jack walks backward a few steps, looking over at Nisha. She’s smiling like a maniac, enjoying the scene all too much. The way she’s looking at Jack is like someone witnessing a God walk on water, and Jack soaked up the admiration. He stops at her side and turns to Wilhelm. He gestures vaguely to let Moxxi go, and he does. She stumbles out of his hold and runs at Scooter, taking his face in her hands and inspecting him, before pulling him into a desperate hug. “It’s like he thinks he’s untouchable--”

“Go to hell, you psychopath!” Moxxi yells, prompting Nisha and Zane to raise their pistols and aim at her. Jack’s quick to hold his hand up though, calming them both. Moxxi doesn’t flinch, not even when Jack starts approaching slowly.

“Tell me he didn’t ask for sex.”

A simple request. Jack lets the words register, lets them sink in, and watches as Moxxi’s strong frown softens sadly. Scooter watches her. He doesn’t need to hear her say it - he  _ knows _ .

So does Jack.

“I still don’t have a Ferrari Testarossa to give Angel because of Zaford. I have a worthless Lamborghini Jalpa-- a  _ has  _ been! I don’t even think you need to leave the country to get one of them?!” His smile drops and he looks at the pair with a sinister frown. “So I’ll give you a second chance. You deliver to me the  _ right _ car in a week’s time, and I won’t need to erase your family tree from existence, got it?” 

Moxxi and Scooter nod, lacklusterly, and on queue, Jack snaps his fingers and makes a move for the exit with the other three following in toe. As he gets to the door, he stops himself on the frame and looks back at the pair, a devious grin lacing itself into his mischievous expression. 

“Oh, and Scooter,” He captures the young man’s eyes with his own. “If someone tried to make a fool of me after soliciting sex from  _ my  _ mom...I’d bury them alive in a shallow grave.” He tilts his head and shrugs. “Just something to think about.”

There’s no talking as the group walk back to Jack’s limousine. Usually when Jack’s had to threaten someone, he likes to relish in the quiet aftermath. There’s distant shouting, echoing among the euphoria pumping through his blood, and an airy feeling like he’s flying. He’s good at playing the bad guy. After a day of playing nice and schmoozing with the likes of simple little Rhys, it’s good to unwind and let his animalistic demons loose. He’s only sad he didn’t get to blow anyone’s brains out personally. 

Which is something Nisha presses him about, throwing her legs over his lap when they're in the limo. With Zane in the front with Wilhelm, she takes the luxury to undo the top buttons of his shirt, and runs her fingers through his coarse chest hair. Her eyes are lidded and dark, like they usually are when it's just the two of them. Jack growls softly under his breath when he feels her other hand slip around the back of his head, twirling the loose strands of his hair that hang.

"The point of sending you in first is so I don't  _ have _ to waste my energy being an asshole." He places his finger beneath her chin and tilts her head ever so slightly, angling her lips perfectly for his. She exhales through an airy laugh, and follows his movement as he leans in to kiss her. There's no innocence about it. It's urgent, and fiery, and  _ demanding _ , like everything in life depends on their intimacy.

She bites his bottom lip and drags it with her teasingly as she pulls away, releasing only when there's no more give. Nisha likes to play sweet and coy, for the sake of foreplay, but she's a conniving minx, no doubt about it, playing Jack's needs for her own thrills. 

"It's more fun when you're being mean though." She teases, leading both her hands either side of his face. Her eyes take in every small detail he has to offer, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. "And you enjoy making people fear you."

Jack clears his throat. "Sure," He delicately moves her out of his lap and scoots over in the leather chair, spreading his legs and settling. She watches him with a hurt expression, subtle, but obvious when viewed through Jack's eyes. He leans over to the mini bar and pulls a bottle of champagne out from the fridge, popping the cork before she can interject, and takes a generous swig straight from the bottle. "But when I tell you to do your job, I expect you to do it."

Nisha raises a brow and scoffs. "Say the word and I'd have popped balloon tits the second you asked."

"But that's  _ not _ what I asked." Jack hunches forward, leaning on his knees, glaring at her. The neck of the champagne bottle is tight in his grip. He feels the brewing of his annoyance rumbling deep in his stomach, only subdued by the fizzy bubbles of alcohol. He takes another swig and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "You want to end up a nobody again, living in your old man's shadow until he gets too tired of showing off? Huh? Is that what you want?"

"Don't be an asshole, Jack--"

"Now you  _ don't  _ want me to be an ass, well make up your freakin' mind, sweet cheeks! If you want me to be a bad guy, then you gotta accept me even being one to  _ you _ ."

Nisha doesn't accept the cold reception though. Instead, she defies him, crawls over into his lap and snatches the champagne from his hand to drink some herself. It spills down her chin over her top. Jack's hands instinctively move to fit the curve of her bum, squeezing softly, bucking his hips even, but he remains frowning. He expects this from her, it’s not a surprise, and deep down he’s grateful for the rebellious routine she always provides. 

All of Jack’s inner circle are like this. Each one knows him in a way no one else does, and they provide him with a deeply intricate safety money can never afford. They might get burned, but they’ll never be ash and rubble, as long as they provide him with the ruthless comfort he pays them to carry out. Jack’s a sadistically dangerous man, who for most of his life has disguised his vulnerabilities with power and violence, and he needs people that understand him through it all, even when they don’t. Even when he shows an inch of pity, after baring his teeth and snarling like a rabid dog, he needs people willing to  _ see  _ him and acknowledge his actions. 

Nisha demands violence, and he only gave her a peek, but she’ll always come running back for more, just like when she was 18 years old applying to be a waitress at a boring family diner. She’d give up her last breath to watch Jack burn down the world. 

Now he needs to relax. He feels tense, overcooking from life’s stresses. Nisha is grinding against him while holding a champagne bottle to his lips, and despite the buzzing of a million thoughts rattling around his head, he grins and accepts her. Bubbles fill his throat, the thrill of letting loose runs rampant through his veins, and he falls into the same old routine he always does with Nisha.

Jack loves the softness of her curves. She’s dainty in all the right ways, defying her slim physique with the muscle of a footballer, and the blessed fat of a baby. He kisses up her neck feverishly while his hands work on tearing off her shirt. She brings out the fun in his sadism; she makes his ruthless violence sexy. She has safe eyes, and a dark beauty that makes picturesque catalogue models look as paper thin as they are. She’s something real he can sink his teeth into, robust and sturdy when he feels weak…

Then, as Nisha slips off his lap and kneels between his legs, pulling his slacks down, his phone goes off. Dull, mood shattering trills, making them both stop. Nisha laughs under her breath as Jack fumbles with his suit jacket, pulling out the obscenely large mobile. He gives Nisha a warning look before pulling up the antenna and answering.

"Speaking?" He huffs out, impatient, looking out the window. His free hand finds its way into Nisha's hair, stroking lovingly as she lays tender kisses over his thighs. Her breath is so  _ warm. _

" _ He doesn't take me on dates _ ."

The voice is smooth - kind of anxious but attempting some kind of confidence, against all odds. Jack's heart momentarily skips a beat. He glances down at Nisha, watching how her hands squeeze his thighs and run up toward the bulge in his boxers. He swallows down hard.

"Can't stay away, can ya, kid?" Jack laughs, doing his best to come off nonchalant. He spreads his legs wider, eyes meeting Nisha's for a second as she gives him a questioning look.

" _ Sorry...I know it's late. I shouldn't have called, but I couldn't stop thinking about… _ " Jack hears Rhys cover the speaker end of the phone. There's a muffled curse, disguised poorly by thick rustling. " _ I've never really been on a date. Is that weird?" _

Jack shifts in his seat. Nisha kisses foundly over his concealed cock, hands hooking the waistband of his boxers edging them down. He tenses his jaw. "Never?" He manages to force out, trying to cool himself - much to Nisha's amusement.

" _ When me and Hugo got back together, we were always sneaking out and hooking up on the down-low. It's just become a routine. He's never actually asked to take me on a proper date. _ "

Jack feels a strange melancholy twist his insides. He puts a hand up to Nisha just as she attempts to pull out his cock, stalling her. She groans impatiently but does as he says.

"So you want me to show you how it should be done or what?" Jack asks, the corner of his lips forming a hopeful smile. He imagines something similar for Rhys - the way it extends to his eyes, bringing out the depths of his soul, lighting an entire room. 

" _ If the offer is still on the table, yes. But just to see what the fuss is all about! It's not an official date or anything, because I can't, obviously...but you're right, I do gotta eat so… _ "

Jack laughs softly. "I'm free next week. Clear your schedule, I'll pick you up at 6." 

" _ Okay. It's a, uh, unofficial date...between friends, or associates, or uh...whatever. _ "

Rhys sounds cute when he's flustered, Jack thinks. "Sure thing, kitten, whatever helps you sleep at night." And with that, he hangs up. He throws his phone to the side and exhales heavily, looking down at Nisha with a dopey smile. 

"Shall I carry on or is your phone more interesting?" She doesn't sound angry, but there's some genuine annoyance to her tone for sure. Jack rolls his eyes and bucks his hips teasingly, grinning like a mischievous kid, hoping to make her smile. She does.

"Make me cum in five minutes and I'll make it worth your while later."

Nisha purses her lips. She pulls his boxers down and wraps her hand around his cock, stroking slowly, enjoying how he rolls his head on his neck.

"Pretty sure I left my strap at yours." She says before swiftly taking his length in her mouth, whole. 

Jack enjoys the bliss. Nisha feels good, and he tries to ignore the pestering truth - that his tranquil happiness came from just hearing Rhys' voice again. It's something to acknowledge another time, when he's ready to admit he's ready for a new routine, with new habits.


End file.
